


Fool's Errand

by R2sMuse



Series: Fool's Errand Universe [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU now to DA:I, Between DA2 and DA:I, F/M, Past Anders/Hawke, Pre-DA:I, leading back into DA:I at the end, past f!Amell/Alistair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:24:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 141,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1681472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R2sMuse/pseuds/R2sMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after allowing Marian Hawke to escape Kirkwall, a disgraced Cullen is sent on a desperate quest to find her. Can he earn her trust in time to regain what he's lost and finally redeem them all for the role they played in igniting the mage-templar war? Set in 9:40, after the events of DA2 and Asunder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Interrogation

**Author's Note:**

> A new long fic started well before many DA: Inquisition details were known, _Fool’s Errand_ will follow what’s now a slightly AU tale exploring why Cassandra thought the Champion could stop the war. I hope to keep updating this on about a weekly basis. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Extra special thanks to my awesome beta, meanieweenie! [Cover art by the talented Chenria](http://chenria.deviantart.com/art/Finally-you-start-to-look-human-again-449956208).
> 
> Update: PLUS! New illustrations from the talented [JerHopp](http://www.jerhopp.com). Check it out!

_9:40 Dragon_  
_Kirkwall Gallows_  
_Free Marches_

The heavily armored men dragged him roughly down a long half-lit hallway. The surface of the ancient stone floor was uneven, having been worn down by the feet of countless slaves and prisoners. He didn't bother trying to keep his feet any longer, preferring to let the guards do the work and tax themselves. An empty victory in a war long lost.

The hallway ended at a heavy oaken door bound in iron and flanked by two sputtering torches. The firelight glinted off the swords of mercy on the guards' breastplates as one man banged on the door.

A clipped command answered them through the door. "Come."

The guards heaved open the door and pulled him into the darkened room, setting him on his feet at last while his leg irons clanked in protest. The room was shrouded in shadows and lit only by a bright spot of light trained on an empty chair.

A woman with short, dark hair stood next to the chair with her feet planted and her arms crossed. The black eye and white sunburst on her dark armor told him almost everything he might care to know, were he to care. Seeker of Truth. Cassandra Pentaghast, it dimly occurred to him. Cool and calm as porcelain, her heart-shaped face betrayed no emotion. Her dark eyes were almost black in the dim lighting as they raked him over.

Of course, he knew what she saw and didn't wonder at the faint disgust that curled her lip for a moment. The bright light made the gaunt hollows even more pronounced under his eyes and where his collarbone stood out from the frayed neckline of his ragged tunic. An unkempt reddish beard obscured his face and his hair fell in tangled red-gold curls to his shoulders. His lean muscles now seemed stretched over his broad frame, making him look undernourished and wiry inside the ill-fitting rags he wore. Nevertheless, he stood tall, unbowed after his years of detention.

"Remove his restraints. Then leave us," she told the guards.

They quickly complied, unlocking the chains from his ankles and wrists and then quietly shutting the door behind them.

"Sit down," she said.

Out of habit, he focused on a neutral spot above her head where the dust motes hung in the air. The bright light drew iridescent blue highlights in her shiny black hair, almost like a raven's wing. He couldn't remember the last time he saw a raven.

When he didn't comply, she repeated, "Sit down, please." The _please_ actually caught his attention as little did anymore. Her face remained expressionless, but there was a telltale pause before the word. Cassandra Pentaghast must not use the word often.

He waited and did nothing. Another tiny, yet meaningless, insurrection. The only kind left to him.

He had to resist the urge to massage some normal feeling back into his wrists

She studied him coolly and finally, a flicker of annoyance passed across her face, revealing her calm expression to be only a facade. "Fine. You may stand as you wish. But, I had hoped to have a more relaxed conversation this time, Cullen."

The former Knight-Captain felt a distant flutter of surprise that her informal address could still rankle after all this time. Stripped of his rank, his standing, his freedom, all he had left was his name, such as it was. He continued to ignore the proffered chair.

"So," she started in an agreeable voice. "I have gained more information about the strange happenings here in Kirkwall since our last interview. Ultimately, it seems that your account of Meredith's madness was accurate. Her eccentricities were indeed caused by the rogue magic in that lyrium idol recovered from the Deep Roads."

She paused for a moment, but he still said nothing.

"Frankly, your story of statues coming to life in service to a flying, glowing abomination was too fantastical to be believed over the cold hard facts that you had turned on your superior officer in support of a known agitator, this Champion of Kirkwall. And, yet, it appears that such peculiar occurrences have been afoot in Kirkwall for many years now.

"The part I still do not understand, however, is how the Champion escaped." She paused again, watching him carefully. He still did not respond, although a small muscle in his jaw began to twitch involuntarily.

"I understand that your orders were to arrest her, and yet following the battle, you instructed your men to allow her and her companions to leave. Can you not shed more light on this for us?" she said in a bright reasonable voice that belied the hard intensity of her eyes.

Finally, Cullen's eyes shifted briefly to her face, considering what sort of response he could give. The silence lengthened.

Then, as if out of nowhere, a woman with short red hair stepped out of the shadowed corner of the room where presumably she'd been standing all along. Only Cullen's long years of training stopped him from physically starting at her sudden appearance. Her blue eyes were fringed with dark eyelashes and her face might have been described as sweet if it weren't for the studied lack of emotion she displayed. He felt a flicker of recognition but couldn't immediately place her.

She gave a brief, friendly smile that did not reach her eyes and said in a strong Orlesian accent, "Oh, but we now know a bit more than this, no? Was it not true that you were, in fact, her friend? It is this friendship we are here to discuss today."

The woman stepped further into the light. She was dressed in dark travel leathers, a contrast from Cassandra's heavy armor. The Orlesian approached him and motioned to the chair. "You will not sit?"

When he merely stared at her, she made a moue of disappointment and then sat down herself. She lounged back in the chair, giving the appearance that she was relaxed even though her eyes were cautious and alert.

  
[Concept art](https://twitter.com/JerHopp/status/478265907090034689/photo/1) by [JerHopp](http://www.jerhopp.com)

"I know that you have not been rewarded for your truths over these past three years, but I would like for you think of this as your chance to set the record straight." The red-headed woman smiled again, obviously thinking that she would set him at ease with this cold upturn of her lips.

He remained silent, not seeing any benefit to rehashing the old memories, the veracity of which even he himself had begun to question over the years.

"If we find what we seek, we may even be able to . . . modify your sentence." Cassandra said grudgingly.

Cullen's eyes darted between the two women and his tongue wet his dry and cracked lips. "What exactly do you want to know?" he finally asked, his voice creaking from lack of use.

  
[Interrogation](https://twitter.com/JerHopp/status/480087193999134722) by [JerHopp](http://www.jerhopp.com)

"How well did you really know Hawke? What were your interactions like? Did she trust you?" Cassandra asked.

Cullen's eyes flashed as he was assailed by an rogue surge of long-forgotten emotion. He quickly suppressed it and his brow furrowed a bit as he puzzled over this strange line of questioning. He had considered Hawke a friend, but that was long ago. They had never been close. They had worked together several times over the years and he had always thought very highly of her. He told them as much. They interrupted him from time to time with questions about the details of some of his dealings with the Champion, and he answered to the best of his ability, his response short and clipped, almost to the point of being rude. Not that it mattered.

Oddly, most of their questions focused on his personal interactions with Hawke, which was starting to make him a bit uncomfortable. He had no idea what Hawke actually thought of him personally. He hadn't interacted with her socially, given her status as both the Champion and a noble, but he could vaguely remember a time when once he would have liked to. However, he kept these traitorous thoughts to himself.

"Hawke had earned my respect, and Meredith was subverting the true purpose of the Order. That was why I supported the Champion. And, why I ultimately let her go. At the time, it was the right thing to do." His tone was neutral, his words curt.

"But, would you say she trusted you?" Cassandra repeated, obviously not getting the answers she was looking for.

"Honestly, I don't know. We fought on the same side on several occasions and the battlefield breeds its own brand of trust." Cullen wasn't sure what else he could say.

Cassandra seemed to consider his response for moment, so the other woman got to her feet and took over the questioning. "What were your interactions with her companions?"

Cullen shrugged. "I believe I've met some of them."

The room fell silent as both women stood with arms crossed and watched him. In another life, he might have fidgeted under the scrutiny, but he was now accustomed to waiting, patiently and incuriously. After three years of sitting in a prison cell, with no hope of release, he could easily wait them out 'til they deigned to continue questioning him. What were a few minutes when he'd gone weeks without saying a single word?

However, he realized he actually was curious now, an unfamiliar feeling now that his days merely blended into one another. Discomfited, he decided instead to act on his curiosity.

"So, do you now believe I acted in the right against Meredith?" he asked dully, still not able to summon up any real hope.

"From what I have learned from the dwarf Varric, indeed, it seems your actions were warranted in some sense. Although, you still were insubordinate," Cassandra said.

"So, does this mean I might have my sentence reduced? Or, even be released?" He heard his voice break as he tried to beat back the hope that threatened to burst through.

The women exchanged a glance and then nodded to each other over some private understanding.

"Let us not get ahead of ourselves," Cassandra said.

The red-headed Orlesian added, "The Maker and the Divine have plans for you."

Cullen's foolish spark of hope was quashed, his fantasies of freedom slipping away again. Of course, they wanted something.

The Orlesian started to pace slowly before him. "You know, the world has changed since you were imprisoned. Perhaps you've heard the murmurings. Thedas is at war. The Circle of Magi is no more, with the mages having finally declared their freedom. The templars now hunt and destroy them, while the mages no longer scruple to use their power to fight back. There have been significant casualties on both sides as well as those caught in the cross-fire. Divine Justinia seeks a peaceable solution, before the war consumes us all."

"Then why not simply order the templars to quit the field?"

The Orlesian stopped her pacing, becoming very still except for the agitated flaring of her nostrils. "The Order no longer recognizes Chantry authority. They have broken the Nevarran Accord."

That revelation almost shocked him. _That explains a few things._ He had noticed fewer templars around the Gallows, fewer people he recognized, more guardsmen from the city. More fear. Now he could see why they were so desperate.

Cassandra stepped in. "We need someone from outside the conflict. Someone respected by both sides who can make them listen. Who can convince them to come to the peace table and find a better way for Thedas. We need the Champion. However, she has been missing these three years since she left Kirkwall that night. Vanished without a trace. We want you to find her. Find her and convince her to help stop this madness."

Silence fell in the room once again, although Cassandra's words still rang in Cullen's ears. Such a mission obviously meant leaving his cell. Leaving the Gallows and Kirkwall. Leaving behind his shame, if that were even possible. But did it really mean freedom?

The women watched his reaction closely, still careful to reveal little themselves. Again, they waited for him to speak.

"Why?" he said at last.

Cassandra still watched him impassively, but the Orlesian's face crinkled up in confusion at his question. "Why save Thedas? Why bring us back from the brink of chaos?" the red-head asked.

Then Cassandra smirked. "Why should _you_ do this? Cullen, do this, and you will earn the Divine's blessing and forgiveness. Do this, and you may regain your templar title and commission."

Now he was truly curious and he didn't like it. The Seeker continued to smirk at him, knowing she now had his full attention. He studied the two women, hating that they had piqued his interest in their schemes. Schemes that had nothing to do with him. What did he care if the world destroyed itself?

He felt a faint twinge of guilt at this thought, like he was exercising a muscle he had not used in too long. But, it wasn't enough to make him want to get involved in this nonsense. On the other hand, he wasn't yet sure what he'd be willing to do for freedom. It had been too long since he'd considered it. He decided that it couldn't hurt to know more first.

He licked his lips nervously again. "What makes you think _I_ could find her?"

The women shared another long look. "Let's just say, we have reason to believe that will be the easy part," the Orlesian said with a little smile.

"And, why would she agree?"

Cassandra snorted. "A hero of her caliber, ignoring such an opportunity to make a difference in the world? She has taken on far less noble missions."

Something still didn't quite add up. If this was such an easy task, then why did they need him? "This is hardly worth my freedom. What else?" he asked, suspicion coloring his question.

"She will need help in this task," Cassandra replied. "You will join her. Help her if you can."

"We need someone on the inside," the Orlesian added. "Someone to accompany her. Help direct her. Someone who can be the eyes and ears of the Divine without alerting anyone to our direct involvement."

His eyes narrowed as he started to realize what they really expected from him. "You want me to spy on her."

"Spy is such a crude word, don't you think? Perhaps you should think of yourself as her guide. No one can interfere with the success of this mission. Not even the Champion herself. The Chantry will do whatever is necessary to end the war. You will be our divine instrument." The Orlesian's voice rang out with these words, like she truly believed they would be doing the Maker's work.

He snorted. _Divine instrument_ was a nice way of saying that, whatever his sins during this mission—and they clearly would be many—he would ultimately be forgiven. And, probably posthumously. "So, you want me to do your dirty work. Why can't the Divine intervene directly?"

The guarded look crept into the Orlesian's eyes again. "There are rumors afoot that the Divine has developed a sympathy for the mages. This is why we need an outsider. The negotiations will be delicate and we must avoid such slanderous perceptions tilting the balance." Despite the woman's intimation of slander, her reaction nevertheless suggested that these were more than just rumors. If the Divine really had sided with the mages against the templars, well then the world truly had changed while he'd been away.

"You really expect her to stop a war. One woman." It wasn't really a question, but it betrayed his growing interest.

"It can be astonishing what one woman can accomplish. Take the Hero of Ferelden, for example. Whom I believe you know?" The red-haired woman studied him intently as she said this, sparking another memory, the feeling that they'd met before, but he still couldn't place her. Yes, he had known Solona Amell, but that was another lifetime. He wasn't about to discuss her with these women. He looked more carefully at the Orlesian, finally realizing that she was older than her delicate features suggested upon first glance. And, more cunning. Who was she in all of this?

Acknowledging his silence with a tilt of her head, the woman continued. "Anyway, Hawke will not be alone. She will have you, no? You are our insurance policy against failure." The Orlesian gave him another mechanical smile.

Cullen didn't like the way she said the word _failure_. "What if the war can't be stopped? The mages are unlikely to give back such hard-won freedom. This is a fool's errand."

"You had better hope that is not the case. Your future, indeed all of our futures, depend on it."

Cassandra added, "Ensure the mission's success, and you will earn you reward. Your reinstatement. Your _permanent_ freedom."

He almost smiled at the irony in her words. Templars were never truly free. Nevertheless, it had to be better than what he had now. He supposed anything was. He couldn't think just yet about the real implications of such a future. Only that it would get him outside again. Dying in prison or beneath the open sky? That choice was clear.

"So will you do this? For the Chantry? For Thedas?" the Orlesian asked.

He nodded slowly but knew that he did it for himself alone. "I will."

"Good. Cassandra will give you whatever details and resources you might need. When next we meet, in this life or the next, may we all be at peace." She then turned on her heel and headed to the door.

As her hand fell on the latch, Cullen was surprised to hear himself ask, "Who are you?"

She paused then looked at him over her shoulder. "I am Sister Nightingale, and I will be watching." Then she was gone.

ooXXoo

Varric had to squint into the bright afternoon sunlight after the dimness of Cassandra's makeshift base at the Gallows. Her latest invitation had been significantly more gentile than the first, seeming to actually allow him the option of refusing her request for an interview this time. She'd even said _please_. So he had come to the Gallows and listened to her renewed entreaties for help in finding the Champion. His answers, however, had remained the same as during his initial interrogation two days before: he couldn't help the Seeker.

While his eyes adjusted, he looked around the Gallows' courtyard, unconsciously doing his usual threat assessment. Standing somewhat forlornly in the middle of the courtyard was someone he hardly recognized, despite the fact that the man had once been a familiar sight out here.

Varric approached him, eyes still trying to confirm what his head had trouble acknowledging. "Cullen?" Varric was shocked at the man's changed appearance. Once a shining testament to templar perfection and tidiness, Cullen was now a hollow, grimy mess. Thin and gaunt, he was wearing an ill-fitting, mismatched set of clothes, but no armor. Thrust without scabbard through his old, worn belt was a dull-looking sword that was badly in need of sharpening. It was also clear that it had been some time since he'd encountered a razor. Or a bath. Varric gave a low whistle. "Andraste's ass, what hole did they drop you in?"

Cullen looked back at the Gallows with hooded, expressionless eyes. "I don't think you can see it from here," he said dully.

Varric wasn't sure if the man was intending to make a joke or not. "By the Stone, what did they do to you? You haven't been in prison this entire time, have you?"

Cullen's eyes squinted up to the sky briefly. "They let me out in the yard every month or two." His voice was still inflectionless but much rougher than Varric remembered.

Varric was horrified as he tried to imagine what the man had been through. "Was this all because of what happened with Meredith?"

"It seems so."

"I . . . You know, words don't often fail me, Templar, but today they do."

Something flashed deep in Cullen's eyes. "Fail indeed, dwarf. I am no longer a templar."

"Ah, my mistake." He gave another low whistle. "Cullen, you look like you've been chewed up and spat from the Abyss itself. Did they just let you go?"

"It seems they are now in possession of the truth about why Meredith really died. I am . . . free . . . to go." Cullen suddenly sounded so lost, his face creased in confusion, that Varric had a flash of guilt. But then, who could ever have guessed that setting the record straight with Cassandra would have resulted in the man being set adrift in this way?

"Look, where are you headed?" Varric asked.

In response, the man looked out across the harbor surrounding the Gallows, eyes focused on the horizon, and did not immediately answer. Varric made some quick decisions.

"All right, you're coming with me. First we'll get you cleaned up and travel ready. Then, we're heading out of town."

Cullen frowned. "Where to?"

"I'm meeting some old friends." Varric clapped him on the shoulder. "And, we don't want to be any later than we already are, so let's get going."

ooXXoo

Sister Nightingale smiled. She and Cassandra stood side by side at the window, watching the former templar and the dwarf talk in the courtyard below.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Leliana," Cassandra said.

"Trust me," Leliana said. "The dwarf was lying. He knows exactly where the Champion is. He will now want to alert her. And, Cullen has nowhere else to go. The dwarf will lead him right to her."

"But do you think Cullen can do everything that needs to be done?" Cassandra was frowning down at their _divine instrument_.

"Oh yes. You just need to have faith." She smiled as the dwarf clapped the taller man on the arm and started to walk away. After a long look around the Gallows courtyard, Cullen turned to follow.

Without taking her eyes of them, Leliana added, "I met him briefly in Ferelden once, you know. I've seen the depth of his fear, his capacity for hate." She looked over at Cassandra. "Did you not see his eyes when we first mentioned the woman Hawke? She is responsible for his years of incarceration. He befriended her, supported her against Meredith, and in return, he was punished while she left Kirkwall without a backward glance." She looked down again at the mismatched pair as they disappeared out the portcullis to the harbor. "When the need arises, I don't think he would have a moment's hesitation in betraying her."


	2. The Taste of Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen adjusts to freedom while following Varric's complicated plan for finding Hawke.

_Gwaren  
Ferelden_

In the weeks that followed, freedom didn't taste quite as sweet as Cullen had anticipated. So far it had involved a stomach-churning sea voyage and several weeks of waiting around in smelly Fereldan taverns, which was about as eventful as his days of incarceration. He didn't even know what they were waiting for, although he could only assume it was Hawke. He didn't want to ask for fear of seeming too eager for the answer.

Of course, their purpose in the busy seaport of Gwaren was about the only thing Varric wasn't forthcoming about. Cullen was finally up to date on the happenings of the world, since Varric was never without a tale to tell and seemed to fear silence. Fortunately, the dwarf took no issue with these invariably one-sided conversations as Cullen readjusted to life outside. Life around people.

Cullen grunted non-committally at the blowzy barmaid who had delivered his pint of ale and then tried to engage him in a breathy conversation about the weather. Finally giving up, she gave him a saucy wink and sauntered away with an exaggerated sway of her hips while the other nearby patrons glared at him distrustfully. He sighed and hunkered down over the drink he had ordered for appearances' sake.

Life outside prison was still unfamiliar, like a distantly remembered dream. It was also unpredictable, a fact that made him both anxious and exhilarated. Gone was the quiet monotony of scheduled guard changes and mealtimes, replaced by an unruly chaos of sight and sound. The town's colorfully painted shutters and fading banners contrasted with muddy thoroughfares and the monotonous gray of the buildings' slate roofs. The market square overflowed with merchants hawking their wares and gossiping townsfolk of inconstant character. The lulling sound of the sea was punctuated by chantry bells, the snap and groan of sails and ship rigging, and the lowing of oxen pulling creaking wagons. He was beginning to appreciate the disorder, for a change, but from a comfortable distance.

He still avoided directly interacting with people, other than Varric, and crowds made him especially nervous. He could now sit in the busy taproom of the tavern where they stayed, so long as he was seated far from the action and preferably in a corner with his back safely against the wall. Luckily, the salty seadogs and randy deck hands that frequented the dockside establishment were suspicious enough of outsiders that they gave him a wide berth in any event. The barmaid, on the other hand, had been more difficult to discourage.

He recognized that part of his discomfort was that he felt almost naked without templar armor. He had worn the heavy plate emblazoned with the Order's distinctive sword of mercy his entire adult life. At least, up until recently. It wasn't just the cliché symbolism of the uniform representing all that he had lost. He immediately shunted away the sudden pain that licked around the edge of that unexamined thought. Nor was it the more practical protective aspect of the armor, although it certainly was superior to that offered by the second-hand plate he now wore. No, what he missed was a different kind of protection: the virtual shield the armor had provided against the world, against the curious, the impertinent and the belligerent. No one questioned a templar.

"Hello?"

Cullen looked up from the untouched pint to focus on a slip of a girl with flat brown hair and new chantry robes. Her large, round eyes darted around the boisterous tavern and she jumped nervously when a nearby group of sailors abruptly broke into raucous laughter. Cullen stared at her in silence until she looked back at him again.

"Hello?" she repeated.

"Yes?"

"I . . . I have a message for M-Master Varric. From the Revered Mother." The girl looked at him askance, her eyes noting his rough appearance, the hollows around his eyes, his long mane of twisted curls, and the heavy red beard that still obscured his face. Although he had started to gain back some of the weight he had lost, he had followed Varric's suggestion that retaining the long hair and beard would help him remain incognito. He could also admit that he wasn't ready to fully bare himself to the world yet. Not when he could still shield himself in some small way from prying eyes. The girl hesitated before asking, "You . . . you are his friend, right?"

Not the word he would have used, but Cullen nodded anyway.

"Here." She handed him a folded note and then jumped again as one of the sailors suddenly pounded the table in amusement at some joke they couldn't hear.

Cullen nodded again, which was enough of a response for the girl who promptly turned tail and fled. He went back to rolling the warming pint between his hands and watching the crowded room, uninterested in the contents of the note sitting on the stained wooden table.

About an hour later, Varric waltzed through the tavern door looking pleased with himself. He had spent his time since they arrived from Kirkwall mining Gwaren's citizenry for information, schmoozing here, bribing there. In order to avoid surprises, he said. As a result, they had been able to avoid the notice of the local guard and get a sense of the political undercurrents in Ferelden.

Like the rest of Thedas, Ferelden scrambled to adjust to the shift of power as the templars abandoned their traditional posts at the Chantries to join the war, and mages ran for their lives. Brazenly assuming sole responsibility for containing the mage threat, the Templar Order—led by the mysterious Seekers of Truth—retained control of the Circle towers for use as prisons in their war on the mages. This new scarcity of templars in most towns would make it easier for Varric and Cullen to avoid notice, but it also meant that local peacekeepers were now stretched beyond their means. Crime rates were already showing a marked increase.

Varric immediately headed for the dark corner where Cullen hid out without even waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. After so many weeks, Varric now knew his companion's habits. He sat down across from Cullen with a swish of his long coat and gently adjusted the enormous crossbow that lay across his back, which was curiously named Bianca for reasons the dwarf hadn't shared.

"A drink, Virna!" Varric shouted to the waitress. He rubbed his hands together and declared, "Good news! I hear there's been a sudden drop in bandit activity in the region. Hawke must be nearby." He then glanced briefly around the secluded corner, which boasted the only empty chairs in the crowded tavern. "Still making friends, I see," he said drily.

Cullen grunted and slid the Chantry note across the table to Varric. The barmaid dropped off another pint while the dwarf scanned the notes contents. Finishing, he looked up at Cullen and grinned broadly. "About time! Seems our wait is over, Templar."

  
By [JerHopp](http://www.jerhopp.com)

Cullen ground his teeth. "I have asked you not to call me that."

"Yes, you have." Varric smiled again and took a long draught of his pint. He then took a handkerchief from pocket and wiped his mouth, the fastidious mannerism revealing the upper-class upbringing Varric tried to hide in his preference for such coarse establishments as the dockside tavern. The handsome dwarf's medium-length blond hair was pulled back, revealing that he still wore large gold rings in his ears, but he had put aside his flashier, chest-baring city clothes in favor of more practical travel leathers. "We'll need to get ready to move out. Drink up and we'll go see what the Revered Mother has for us."

Soon after Cullen was hovering on the threshold of Gwaren's small cathedral, waiting for the sense of peace and comfort he typically felt at the Chantry. But, again, nothing. Nothing but guilt at their deceitful purpose in coming there. _That must be the problem_. Hopefully once Varric's scheme was behind them, whatever it might be, he would be able to sense the Maker again.

A suspicious look from the guard at the entrance brought him back to himself, reminding him to be grateful that it was a city guardsman and not a templar scrutinizing him so closely.

He ducked his head and followed the dwarf down the broad nave toward the dais and then through a side door that led to the Revered Mother's office. The matronly clergywoman sat behind her desk, her robust size dwarfing the tiny chair upon which she sat. She rose awkwardly to her feet when Varric entered and clasped her hands. "Ah, Varric, there you are, dear. I'm glad you came so soon. I have good news! Your parents may now rest in peace, Maker watch over them. Someone has finally tracked down the villains who robbed them."

"Wonderful, Your Reverence. Please tell me who has been my deliverer, so that I may thank him or her."

"They have asked to remain anonymous but have returned your mother's locket. With blessed Andraste's sword of mercy, just like you described!" The Revered Mother rifled around in a locked drawer before handing a heavy golden locket to Varric. Engraved on the locket's surface was an upright sword surrounded by stylized flames inlaid with a darker, burnished copper. The locket was held shut with a small, intricate locking mechanism. "And, see, it is still safely locked."

"Thank the Maker," Varric said without a hint of irony.

"I knew that we could restore your faith, child. When you told me of how such devoted converts to the Maker's love could be taken from us so soon, and in such a brutal manner, I prayed to the Maker for help. And, some kindly soul has answered His call," the Revered Mother gushed.

"Maker be praised," Varric murmured.

Cullen had to work hard not to roll his eyes at the farce and descry Varric's blasphemy. Cullen was pretty sure that, being dwarven nobles, Varric's family members had not been Andrastian converts. He was also sure that they had not recently been slaughtered by a mysterious one-armed man who had taken Varric's mother's locket. Nevertheless, shortly after they had landed in Gwaren, Varric had set off for the local chantry where he had told this pitiable tale to the gullible Revered Mother. With Varric's penchant for storytelling—and, lying—she had accepted his tale, hook, line and sinker. She immediately had posted a notice to the chanter's board asking for some courageous adventurer to bring the culprits to justice and recover the heirloom for Varric.

In the subsequent weeks that they had waited in Gwaren, adventurers from every walk of life, from random street thugs to off-duty guardsmen, had tried to claim the sizable bounty Varric had laid on the elusive one-armed man. The upside was that a number of completely unrelated, minor criminals had been apprehended during the search. Cullen tried to be mindful of these unforeseen benefits since deceiving a Revered Mother was something that disturbed him deeply. He could only hope that somehow this ridiculous lie was going to help them find Hawke, so he kept his mouth shut.

Cullen distracted himself by watching the dust motes float through a beam of light slanting through the tall clerestory windows while Varric expounded on his praise for the anonymous adventurer and for the Revered Mother's kindness to a solitary surface dwarf. Thankfully, Varric stopped talking eventually, and they escaped with the locket back to their room at the tavern.

Sitting at the one table in their cramped quarters, Cullen watched silently as Varric drew off one of his rings and gave it a complicated twist. When a small cross-shaped key popped up on the ring, he then applied it with a few deft twists to the mechanism on the locket. With an audible click, the locket snapped open, and Varric drew out a compactly folded note from within the locket. He gently unfolded it and smoothed it out on the surface of the table.

Cullen canted his head to read the cramped chicken scratches and after some squinting, recognized what they were at last. "Directions?"

"Indeed, Templar. To the next stop in our journey. Luckily, this hollow doesn't seem to be far, so we can probably start off in the morning and be there before sunset."

Cullen watched him for a beat. "This wasn't your mother's locket."

Varric snorted. "An Andrastian locket? Great Ancestors, no. It's part of my system to find Hawke. I told you that she's been spending her time helping people out with their problems. She tends to frequent chanter's boards, so this was our way of getting her attention."

"And, there was no one-armed man."

"Of course not. That's our code word. I post a plea for help featuring the nefarious one-armed man and a lost locket. Hawke swoops in and claims the bounty, in the process returning the locket through official Chantry channels. We find out where she is. Easy as pie."

ooXXoo

_Easy as pie_. Cullen ground his teeth at these innocuous words as he looked over his shoulder again for the telltale signs that they were being followed through the dense wood. Hawke's directions sent them away from the coast on paths that were little traveled. With each turn, the wood became wilder and the road more isolated. The fading sun now struggled to reach them through the tangle of leaves, casting their twisting path into a lonely twilight. The bandits were likely to move in on them soon and the tension was making his body thrum with adrenaline.

He was just wondering how to warn Varric about the impending attack when he heard the dwarf give a heavy sigh. Without turning his head from where he led the way, Varric said in a low voice, "Well, I don't think we're going to shake them. You ready to make our stand now or should we string them along a little further?"

"No time like the present."

Varric grinned at him. "I like the way you think, Templar. All right, that next outcrop of rock, we'll turn and fight."

Cullen grunted in acknowledgment. From the movement he'd seen, they were significantly outnumbered anyway, so it was as good a plan as any.

Upon reaching the outcrop, they turned and waited in tense silence. Varric stood with Bianca at the ready and scanned the surrounding wood. Cullen gripped his newly acquired sword and shield, his palms sweating a bit as he compensated for the difference in weight and balance from his templar arms. Cullen heard Varric mutter under his breath, "Gotcha." With a faint twang, a bolt was away, followed by a distant cry of pain and then a shout. The shout was soon picked up by others, with multiple targets moving in toward them in a wide circle. Perhaps eight to ten men. Not great odds.

"Show time," Varric said, and then his crossbow was a blur of motion as it sent out volley after volley of suppressing fire. More cries revealed more bolts hitting their targets, although it wasn't clear if any of them had been removed from the fight.

It was several more heartbeats before the first bandits emerged from the cover of the wood. Cullen moved to intercept them before they could close in on Varric, and then instinct took over. His focus narrowed to the swing of his sword, the clang of blows deflecting off his shield, the shower of blood from a hit. As he moved methodically through the bandits, a quiet inner voice was grateful that his training was so instinctual that it automatically rose to the challenge, even after all this time.

A sharp pain in his bicep brought him out of his battle-induced haze and he glared at the garishly dressed man whose knife had just slipped through his guard. Cullen bellowed with rage and struck the man with the full force of his shield, dropping him heavily to the loamy earth. With the wind knocked out of him, the bandit gasped for air. Cullen stepped in to finish him when the man abruptly dropped his knives and held up his hands in supplication. "Stop! Wait!"

Cullen paused. "Tell me why I shouldn't end you here?" he asked, his sword arm holding rock steady as he pointed the tip at the man's neck.

"Because then you would also be dead."

Cullen risked a glance at the wood around them, finally noticing the archers whose deadly arrows were now trained on him. The archers were soon joined by several more swordsmen who moved out of the woods to circle them. Then were all dressed in patched and second-hand leathers, suggesting they weren't terribly good bandits. Varric lowered his crossbow and held up one hand in surrender. Cullen considered the odds for a moment more before stepping back slowly, but with blade still held at the ready.

The man stood up, brushing dirt off his clothes in an almost laughably meticulous manner. He adjusted his ostentatious red cravat, which clashed badly with his faded, green-striped doublet. His faux-aristocratic manner was completed by the large-brimmed hat he retrieved from the ground and set on his head at a jaunty angle.

"Nice hat," Varric remarked drily.

The man nodded his thanks at Varric. "Ahem. Now, look, I think we might have got off on the wrong foot. I am a businessman, see?" The man hooked his thumbs in his over-sized lapels and rocked on the balls of his feet. "I think we can all win here and avoid any further unpleasantry." The bandit looked pointedly at Cullen's still raised sword. "Please?"

Cullen didn't drop his arm but nodded slightly. "Continue."

The bandit sighed. "All right, look. We tried to find this one-armed man of yours, all honest-like. Honest work for honest pay, we say." Cullen snorted in disbelief. Seeming to give up on Cullen, the bandit leader turned instead to Varric. "We was lookin' hard. But we found no sign of this fellow anywhere in the area. Then, someone else comes along and claims the bounty, right out from under us. From under us!" He sniffed and looked down his nose at Varric. "All our hard work, wasted. Eh, boys?" He looked around at his men, who all nodded and continued to give him their rapt attention.

"But, now we figure someone who pays so well for vengeance likely has more to share, right? Especially that oh-so-valuable property he just had returned to him. So, we will alleviate you of that locket now, along with whatever coin you have. Then we may all go about our normal day. Fair-like, see? We finally get compensated for our substantiable efforts. And, you get to be alive. Everybody wins." He beamed at them as if this were a truly fair deal.

Silence fell in the small clearing as Varric made a show of considering this ridiculous offer, looking down and rubbing his beardless chin in a thoughtful way. Cullen slowly shifted his weight, preparing to attack the instant Varric rejected it. Then, out of the blue, a new voice floated across the clearing. "Perhaps you should take up your complaint with the person who actually claimed the bounty then, hmm, friend?"

Everyone's heads spun around, searching for the source, and eventually looked up to the top of the rocky outcrop behind them. Standing at the rock edge above them was a lithe, dark-haired woman dressed all in dark leather.

 _Hawke_.

A shock ran through Cullen at the sight of her, still larger than life, still impossibly composed in the face of staggering odds. Just like the last time . . .

He was then overwhelmed by a riot of inconvenient emotions boiling to the surface. Some he easily recognized, relief, excitement, resentment, spite, but others were merely confusing and would take time to unravel. He quickly shunted them to the side.

Her green eyes narrowed, almost catlike as they gleamed down at the group. She gave them a feral smile and then launched herself at the bandit leader with daggers drawn. The leader gave a high-pitched scream and was trying to scramble back when she knocked him to the ground. She gracefully tumbled to the side, immediately gaining her feet, and forced the man back with deadly slashes of her knives.

Everyone stood with mouth agape, watching Hawke tussle with the bandit, when the surrounding archers were abruptly wreathed in a wall of crackling flame. Some dropped their bows, others ran, but all of them screamed in terror and pain. Only two succeeded in stumbling away from the locus of the flames in time to drop to the ground and extinguish their burning clothing.

Finally coming to his senses, Cullen surged forward and sent out a pulse of spirit energy that flung the remaining swordsmen to the ground. He then moved over them, dispatching the first two easily where they still lay stunned. He turned to a third, deflecting a hasty blow with his shield, but as he moved to counterstrike, one of Varric's dark-fletched bolts blossomed from the man's throat. With a gurgle and a fountain of blood, the man slipped to the ground dead. Cullen didn't spare a glance for Varric but moved on to the next bandit, who was wild eyed with fear and starting to edge away.

The bandit leader was bleeding from multiple wounds when he licked his lips nervously and yelled, "Jig is up, boys! Run for it!" The few remaining bandits and the leader then turned and ran. Hawke's face crinkled in amusement as she stood back and let them go.

"Impeccable timing, Hawke. As usual," Varric said, hefting Bianca up to his shoulder with a lopsided grin.

Hawke laughed. "I guess the mythical one-armed man is starting to get a little popular, Varric. We'll have to come up with something better next time."

But before Varric could respond, a blond man holding what was clearly a mage staff strode into the clearing from behind them, eyes blazing. Thinner and scruffier than the last time Cullen had seen him, Anders had retained that desperate energy and zeal that marked him as dangerous.

"You brought a templar with you?" Anders demanded through gritted teeth. He glared at Cullen and drew everyone's attention to the former Knight-Captain. Cullen clenched his jaw as curious eyes roamed over him, measuring, questioning, judging. He remained very still, not wanting to make any sudden moves around the unstable mage. The mage who had reduced Kirkwall's chantry to a smoking crater. The mage who had destroyed countless lives and incited a war.

Hawke frowned, really looking at Cullen for the first time. "What—?" She sounded skeptical, so Anders interrupted her.

"His holy smite just now drained all my mana!" Anders looked accusingly at Varric while he pointed at Cullen. "Who is this man? Are you insane to bring him here? We spend years being careful to avoid the notice of the Chantry and then you—"

"Cullen?" Hawke gasped. Her face had gone white and her mouth was agape in surprise as she stared at him, seemingly more shocked than Varric had been those many weeks ago. "Is . . . is that really you?" Anders also gave him a confused double take, but it was the extremity of Hawke's reaction that made Cullen suddenly even more self-conscious.

Varric watched Cullen for a moment out of the corner of his eye and then intervened. "Ah, yes. Well, we've got a bit of a tale to tell, but preferably once we're somewhere no longer surrounded by suspiciously slaughtered corpses. By the way, lovely to see you both, too."

Hawke closed her mouth with a snap and gave herself a little shake. "Right. Let's get back to camp." She rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Lucky we decided to do some scouting in preparation for your arrival. I had one of my bad feelings again." She dropped her hand and glanced at Cullen uncertainly, finally giving him a faint smile. "It looks like you do have quite the tale to tell, my friend. It's good to see you again. Both of you." She looked around at the others. "Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! Next up: Chapter 3: Unexpected, where Cullen encounters Hawke's band at last and begins his lies.


	3. Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's mission begins but with unforeseen challenges.

_Brecilian Forest  
Ferelden_

Hawke led them at a brisk pace through the wood. She seemed keen on avoiding any kind of a trail and instead trudged straight through the densest foliage without slowing. Everyone fell in behind her in single file and just tried to keep up without also breaking every branch and twig they encountered along the way. The pace allowed little opportunity for conversation, but this was just fine as far as Cullen was concerned.

Naturally taciturn anyway, he was glad for the time to compose himself and to prepare for his inevitable interrogation. He hadn't expected to run across Hawke quite so soon, which he supposed could be the reason for his unexpectedly visceral reaction to seeing her again. From his vantage point at the back of the group, she was just a flash of long, midnight hair and a blur of graceful movement swaying purposefully through the trees.

In contrast to himself, she looked almost the same after three years. Except perhaps a little leaner, a little hungrier, as if being hunted had given her a new edge. She had also grown out her hair, which had been short for all the years he had known her. But her face still held the same complexities he had once appreciated, such as the way she could switch in an instant from earnest jokester to lethal huntress, a contrast he'd too often seen during their sometimes heated debates about mages over the years.

His stomach roiled with an upsurge of darker emotions and he tasted bitterness on his tongue. He pictured again those catlike green eyes watching him tensely as she warily backed away from the smoking remains of Knight-Commander Meredith, back toward the Gallows' courtyard gate, toward freedom. A freedom he had granted her that day, just as his own had been taken away for three long years. He clenched his jaw against the resentment that burned along his veins, along with something stronger, something he might even call hate.

Anders glanced suspiciously over his shoulder at Cullen just then, almost as if he could feel the waves of hostility now rolling off the former templar. Drawing on his indistinct recollections of the blond mage, Cullen decided Anders now had a similar edge to what he saw in Hawke, only in Anders that edge seemed to include a deep paranoia. Cullen couldn't help but have overheard the mage's urgently whispered protestations to Hawke about bringing him along. Protestations that, luckily, Hawke had brushed off so far.

Of course, her continued acceptance of Cullen would likely depend on how good a case he made for staying. He still wasn't sure how he would talk her in to getting involved with the war, but first things first. First he had to get her to trust him. After everything with Meredith, with Hawke abandoning him to his fate, he wasn't sure what she felt about him. But his own acrimonious feelings toward her were becoming clear. Now all he had to do was conceal them.

After about an hour of walking, they arrived at Hawke's camp. A slim, silver-haired elf with intricate tattoos swirling over his whole body sat near the cooking fire, sharpening an enormous broad sword with practiced sweeps of a whetstone. He looked up at their approach, frowning suspiciously when he saw Cullen.

Kneeling over the fire was another elf wearing more traditional Dalish tattoos on her delicate face. She swept dark hair off her forehead as she stirred the steaming contents of a large soup pot and then looked up at them with a bright smile. "Oh good, you found him!" Then she caught sight of Cullen and stumbled. "Erm, oh, I mean, them . . ."

Hawke snorted. "And not a minute too soon. They were making friends with the local bandits who felt we were moving in on their territory."

"On the contrary, we had them right where we wanted them, Hawke," Varric said with a chuckle. He walked over to the elf woman and gave her a big hug. "Daisy! And, my favorite—your mushroom stew!"

"Just for you, Varric!" she said but then glanced uncertainly at Cullen. "I hope I made enough."

The silver-haired elf stood up, sword in hand and eyes still fixed on Cullen. "Won't you introduce us, Hawke?" he said, his voice rumbling from deep within his chest.

With an off-hand flip of her wrist, Hawke said, "I'm sure you all remember Knight-Captain Cullen. Cullen, I don't know if you ever had a chance to actually meet everyone. This is Fenris and over there by Varric is Merrill."

Merrill gave a surprised squeak. "Creators save us, is that really the Knight-Captain?"

Cullen flinched at the innocuous question. "I am Knight-Captain no more," he said in a tight voice.

Fenris's mistrustful gaze hadn't wavered at this information. If anything, it had sharpened. "A templar is a curious addition to the group, Hawke. Do we know where his allegiances lie?"

"Of course we don't!" Anders said, sneering. "Which is why we shouldn't trust him."

Hawke gave a long-suffering sigh. "I think we can give our former ally the benefit of the doubt for now. Let's eat and then talk. I'm starving!"

"But—" Anders started.

"Eat first, suspicious questions after." Hawke's tone brooked no argument, so everyone returned to the fire to tuck in to Merrill's stew. Everyone but Anders, who stared pugnaciously at Cullen for several tense moments before turning on his heel and marching to the opposite side of the fire.

The group's light banter during dinner revealed a little of their inner workings. Hawke's word was unquestioningly the law, but she rarely wielded this power. In fact, it seemed that most of her companions deferred to her merely out of respect or honest affection.

 _Foolish_. It was only a matter of time before they were no longer useful and she abandoned them, too.

The curious exception to this was Anders, who time and again challenged Hawke on matters big and small, like he was deliberately baiting her. Sibling rivalry? Spurned lover? This suddenly jogged a half-forgotten memory. Hawke and friends visiting the Gallows. Anders standing just a little too close to her. His hand lingering on her elbow. His anger quick to defend her.

 _Right._ _Hawke and Anders._

Were they still together? Or was this just sour grapes? The notion threw Anders's actions into a completely new light, although it still wouldn't explain the degree of his hostility toward Cullen.

  
By [JerHopp](http://www.jerhopp.com)

Eventually, the stew was gone and Hawke turned to Varric, unable to contain her own curiosity any longer. "So, we expected you in Gwaren over a month ago. We waited as long as we dared and then moved on, hoping to circle back later for some sign of you. I was so relieved when we finally saw the one-armed man posting on the chanter's board this week. What happened?"

"Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of Truth, happened." Varric waited a beat for that to sink in, clearly enjoying the surprise on everyone's faces at mention of the mysterious Order. "The woman was shaking down anyone who might know what had happened to you, Hawke." He glanced briefly at Cullen, like he suspected that the former Knight-Captain must have been part of the same investigation. Hawke's eyes tracked this but she said nothing, waiting for the dwarf continue. "It took some time, but eventually, she tracked me down, too." He snorted. "She even questioned me at your house, Hawke, where it seems the Seekers were camping out while in Kirkwall."

"My house?" she said, sounding unexpectedly forlorn. Then she gave herself a shake. "Ah, well. Please, continue."

Varric went on to describe in lurid detail his interrogation, which had involved him rehashing virtually every story he had in his repertoire about Hawke. Since Cullen had been through a seemingly similar interrogation, he found it somewhat amusing that the dwarf couldn't help but embellish some of the dramatic elements of his retelling. Especially when he got to Cassandra's request for help with the mage-templar war. "So, there she was, bosom heaving, tears in her eyes, begging for us to get involved. 'Not all of us desire war, Varric,' she cried. 'You may be the only ones who can stop the madness. Without you we are lost!' But, I wasn't moved by her tears or her maidenly charms, and so I maintained my ignorance of Hawke's whereabouts."

Hawke raised her eyebrows. "Heaving bosom, Varric?" she asked, while Merrill giggled.

"Well, maybe I got a little carried away. Point is, she did seem to have developed a little hero worship with you, Hawke, and she actually seemed a little desperate for help. She even invited me to the Gallows after she let me go, politely mind you, and renewed her plea one last time." He laughed and then paused as if warming up to his next revelation. "And, then you'll never guess who I ran into. Someone who apparently had been in the Gallows' prison since he helped us overthrow his superior." He pointedly looked over at Cullen, and soon every eye was on him. "Seems they let him go after hearing the true story. So I found him wandering aimlessly in the courtyard, like a lost puppy. What else could I do but take him in?"

"Now that's finally coming it a bit strong, dwarf," Cullen growled.

Varric smiled and shrugged his barrel-like shoulders. "Would you prefer to tell it your way then, Templar?" he asked in a sweetly reasonable voice. Suddenly, Cullen regretted having spoken up. Everyone continued to watch him, waiting.

"Cullen, what did happen after Meredith died?" Hawke asked softly. "After you let us go."

The compassion he heard in Hawke's voice made his resentment flare. _Where was her compassion then?_ He took a moment to reign in his anger, taking a deep breath in an effort to keep his tone even. "We had our hands full at first, restoring order to the city. Stopping the looting and the chaos. Especially around the ruins of the Chantry." Eyes flicked briefly to Anders at this, but the mage remained stony faced. "A few weeks later the Seekers of Truth arrived and put the Gallows on lock down, pending their investigation. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they found my explanation of Meredith's insanity and possession . . . difficult to accept."

He had to stop as the long-buried feelings of helplessness and impotent fury bubbled up, threatening to choke him. Again, the biting realization that no matter what he said, no matter how truthfully he explained, the Seeker would not believe him. The truth, in end, had only made things worse for him. Especially since, at the core of his story, was his insubordination, perhaps the most unforgivable of his sins. An entire regiment of templar had seen him defy Meredith's order to kill the Champion out of hand, but that was a truth he would not deny in any event. Cassandra hadn't cared at the time what his reasons were, since the fact of the matter remained. But it was what happened after, Meredith's corruption by ancient magics and descent into madness, that the Seeker simply wouldn't accept.

His mind shied away from remembering their methods for extracting the story they wanted to hear, a story that made sense. But it had done no good, and in the end, they had simply stopped asking. The quiet and stillness had been a blessing at first, and it wasn't until a year or so later that he had begun to wonder if they had simply forgotten about him. Thankfully, they still fed him regularly.

He looked around at the circle of stunned and horrified expressions around the fire and too late recognized that he must have started speaking aloud. He cleared his throat, bracing himself for the next part of the story, where the lies began. "And, so it proceeded, for three years it seems, until finally one day Cassandra came back again." He laughed humorlessly. "She said that she had new information that supported my original story. I was free to go." _Free_. He couldn't help the ironic sneer he felt curling his lip at the hollow word.

Silence reigned after he finished since no one seemed to know what to say. Merrill was wringing her hands and looked as if she wanted to cry. Or Maker forbid, hug him. Fenris looked thoughtful, his attitude seeming to thaw slightly. Across the fire, Anders's eyes flickered with reflected firelight and distrust.

A small wrinkle had appeared between Hawke's brows and her eyes were distant. "Of course. We were the only survivors of the battle. After we left, the only people who could corroborate your story were either dead or gone. I . . . can't believe . . . I mean, I never thought the templars would . . ."

"Would what?" Anders asked. "Imprison and torture one of their own? Why not? They did it to the mages every day."

"But this . . . Maybe we should have—" she started.

"Stayed and been arrested, too?" Anders interrupted again. "Or worse? Hawke, we did what we had to do. There were a lot of casualties that day."

Her head snapped toward Anders, eyes flaring with . . . what? Annoyance? Anger? Did it even matter? Her recriminations, sincere or not, were too little, too late.

Before she could say anything, Fenris spoke up. "I find it intriguing that the Seeker would turn to you for assistance, Hawke."

"Why not? Everyone else does," she said with a shrug.

"But, this is different. The Seekers of Truth no longer look to the Chantry, and yet this Seeker does. And claims to speak for the Divine herself. Why would the Divine turn to you? Why not use the might of the Chantry to stop the fighting? Why an outsider?" Fenris asked.

She shrugged again. "I honestly have no idea. I can't imagine who would bother listening to me. I'm no one. Or, haven't been for some time."

"No, Hawke, you're more. You're a legend. I ensured that personally," Varric said smugly.

The sudden twinkle in Hawke's eye signaled the return of her humor. "So, as a legend, all I have to do is walk onto the battlefield and impress them with my awesomeness? Dazzle them into a peaceful solution? And, maybe offer to sign a few copies of your book?"

"You can be rather impressive sometimes, Hawke," Merrill added.

"You are also expendable," Fenris said bluntly. "If things go badly, then you can take the fall and the Chantry endures." It seemed the elf was far too intuitive for his own good. Cullen's attention shifted back to Hawke, curious how she would respond.

"Isn't that a little paranoid, Fenris?" Hawke asked. "I'm sure the Chantry is just looking for whatever assistance it can. The war is pulling the whole world apart. And we helped start it." She kept her voice neutral, but her eyes were trained on the ground, as if avoiding any more accusatory glances at Anders.

Varric laughed. "Yeah, isn't paranoia Blondie's arena?"

Anders glared at the dwarf. "It is not paranoid to question the intentions of the Chantry toward us. There's a reason we've been in hiding for three years. Varric, you were right to turn down this mission. It's suicide."

"Though it pains me, I must agree with the mage," Fenris rumbled. "Yes, there is much at stake, but you Hawke would be the one paying the price. I think it wise that we stay clear of any Chantry plots. The mages and the templars must settle this between themselves."

"That certainly would be nice," Merrill said with a little frown. "But you know, isn't it curious how anything the Chantry does seems to affect the rest of us anyway?"

Hawke's head shot up and gave Merrill a measuring look and after a moment opened her mouth to speak. But Anders immediately cut her off. "No, Hawke. No. We already do enough charity work. For once, this is a debacle they need to solve for themselves."

Hawke's eyes narrowed at the mage, the catlike gleam returning as she stared him down. "You mean, because _they_ are solely responsible for starting it in the first place?" He met her eyes in a silent standoff which started to make the others squirm. Cullen watched with interest, encouraged that Hawke seemed open to getting involved. It was unfortunate, however, that the mage seemed to have so much sway with her. Theirs was a fascinating dynamic that would bear further observation.

Fenris, an unlikely peacemaker, stepped in again. "Many factors played a role in bringing the world to where it is today. We'll not solve its problems tonight."

Hawke tore her eyes away from Anders. In an inflectionless voice she said, "Agreed. I don't do wars any more anyway. Too many people die." She abruptly stood up. "We have our own concerns and we'll want to get an early start tomorrow." She turned and strode away from the fire and from the friends who all watched her go with concerned eyes.

ooXXoo

While Hawke's companions all started to turn in for the night, Cullen settled himself down at the furthest reach of the campfire's light. He sat down on his bedroll, which rustled with newness, and watched the stars twinkle. The inconstant murmur of the others eventually fell quiet and he was left at last with the soulful silence of the night.

For all the time he'd spent longing for the wide open blue sky above him, he found that it was the night sky that actually brought him some measure of peace. Free from the clamor and clutter of people performing their daily routines, the night brought tranquility and simplicity. Watching the distant stars, immutable and yet always in motion, he continued to be awestruck by the endless possibility he saw there, just beyond reach. He could almost imagine a future where he would truly be as free.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

He jumped as Hawke appeared out of nowhere, face also tilted up to the sky. She had removed her leather jerkin and was wearing a sleeveless linen tunic over slim trousers. Her hair was wet and tied up in a knot at the nape of her neck, suggesting that she'd been bathing at the nearby stream while the others retired. He cursed himself for falling so deeply into thought that she could sneak up on him so easily. Apparently all his instincts were rusty.

He had to stop himself from scowling at her for the interruption, so didn't respond immediately. She took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. "Sometimes things seem simpler when the stars shine down at you, don't they?" she asked with a lopsided smile. The uncanny similarity of their thoughts left him further baffled as to a response.

She glanced down at him uncertainly when he didn't answer again. "I . . . I didn't mean to disturb you. I only wanted to see if you needed anything."

"No," he said flatly.

She seemed to struggle for something else to say, biting her lip. "Good. They're not the most comfortable accommodations in the world . . ." She trailed off and colored, seeming to remember his ordeal after the fact. "I mean, I wish we could offer you something more comfortable after . . . what you've been through." She reached up near her ear and started to worry at a wisp of hair that had come free, repeatedly winding it around her finger as she waited for him to say something.

Cullen found it amusing that the Champion of Kirkwall seemed to be so nervous around him. He was content to let her squirm, but then he recalled his purpose, that he needed for her to trust him. "You needn't be concerned about me, Hawke. I find I no longer need much in the way of comfort."

Curiously, instead of reassuring her, as he'd intended, his words seemed to pain her more. She grimaced and faintly murmured, "I see."

Thinking he could set her at ease with her decision to let him stay, he said, "I suppose I should thank you for taking me in."

She laughed, an earthy sound that seemed to wash away her uneasiness. "Look at how diplomatic you still are! Here I came over to thank you, and you've already beaten me to the punch."

"I . . . beg your pardon?" he asked, confused.

She sighed and gracefully sank down next to him on his bedroll. His eyes widened in alarm at her sudden proximity, which was well within what he considered to be his personal space. His pulse became loud in his ears and it took all his strength of will not to jump away to a more appropriate distance. Even though she wasn't touching him, he could still feel the heat of her body where her hip almost grazed against his own. No one had come this close to him in years. At least, not without more brutal intentions. He concentrated on controlling his flight instinct while she wrapped her arms around her knees and looked up at the night sky again. As a result, he was completely unprepared for her next words.

"You know, I've thought about you quite a bit these last few years, Cullen. Of course, I always assumed you were living your life normally, happily promoted somewhere outside Kirkwall, not . . . not . . ." She turned to him and searched his face, as if seeking a comforting colloquialism for what he had endured and failing. She flushed and looked down at her knees instead. "Well, the thing is, I owe you my life, for what you did with Meredith. It has always bothered me that I never got the chance to say thank you." In a low voice, she added, "And, now it seems I owe you more than I even knew."

His brow furrowed at this unexpected admission. He had expected that she might try to disavow responsibility for his incarceration, given how easily she had let him take the fall. But not this. It left him feeling strangely unbalanced as he struggled to understand her. It didn't help that he also felt besieged by the strong scent of lavender coming from her newly washed hair and the heat of her bare arm which came dangerously close to brushing him whenever she shifted.

"You . . . you . . . don't o-o-owe me anything, Hawke," he finally managed, chagrined that he was stammering again like a new recruit. That seemed like a safe lie, thankfully lacking the bitterness that had simmered inside him all afternoon.

She gave a throaty chuckle. "Of course I do. Anyway, I know I can't really do much to make it up to you. But I wanted you to know that I will try." Before he could respond, she leaned toward him, placing a hand on his arm, and gave him a soft kiss high on his cheekbone. She gave his arm a squeeze and then smoothly rolled to her feet, leaving him alone with the unfamiliar rush of warmth that blossomed inside him.

Once she was gone, he explosively let out the breath he was holding and tried to calm his racing heart. He could still feel the imprint of her hand still on his arm. What was most disconcerting was the way he could distinctly recall the way her breath had feathered lightly across his face just before her lips had touched him. He looked over to where she had folded herself into her own bedroll before the fire and his fingers hesitantly crept up to touch his cheek.

No. Not what he was expecting at all.

Eventually, he lay down, arms crossed behind his head. Studying the complex patterns of stars overhead, he tried to reconcile her response with his feelings of betrayal, eventually falling asleep still confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: _Chapter 4: The Light Shall Endure_ : Cullen tries to find his place in the group even while the betrayals begin. Thanks so much for reading!


	4. The Light Shall Endure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen commits his first betrayal while trying to fit into Hawke's tightly knit group.

_Bremen  
Ferelden_

_..._

_I have found H. We travel through southern Ferelden. I will now attempt to convince her._

_C._

_..._

The message for Cassandra felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket as Cullen walked to the Chantry the next morning to deliver it. Their early arrival in the town of Bremen, apparently a habit of Hawke's to avoid curious eyes, meant that the streets were mostly empty. He was glad he was accompanied by the more reserved Fenris instead of the talkative dwarf, since Cullen couldn't focus on anything more than the clandestine drop off. His first betrayal. His hand crept into his pocket again and he fingered the wax seal on the message, picturing the symbol pressed into it. The Seeker's sun and all-seeing eye, pierced by an upright sword. Cassandra had claimed that the Chantry priests would know what to do with the message, and that it would reach her safely and securely.

"When you can, you will contact us through our network," Cassandra had commanded. "You will use this seal on your messages." She had handed him a nondescript ring topped with an oval moonstone engraved with the sword of mercy, not dissimilar from those given to every templar upon taking their vows. On this ring, however, the moonstone's setting cleverly flipped over to reveal the Seeker's secret seal. Or whomever the seal belonged to. She hadn't explained it any further. "Keep us apprised of your progress, Cullen, or your deal becomes null and void." At the time, her threat hadn't fazed him in the slightest, but it was different now that he was actively engaged in deception.

"Ho, Templar!"

His head jerked up to look at the scowling elf, who had been trying in vain to get his attention. "What? Yes?" It seemed they had arrived.

The old wooden chantry had seen better days. The bas relief bronze work on the the massive double doors was so tarnished that the usual parable about Andraste it depicted was indecipherable. Arched above the doors, the wooden arc of stylized sunbeams raised to the sky in glory had several gaps where sunbeams had broken off and the arc was canted slightly to one side. At the foot of the steps leading to the doors was a weathered stone statue of Andraste tinted green from moss and neglect. Nevertheless, seeing blessed Andraste welcoming him raised his spirits, until he remembered his purpose there. Like in Gwaren, engaging in something so underhanded in the Maker's house made him feel unclean. The fact that he was there at the Chantry's behest didn't seem to help.

Fenris shook his head in frustration. "I will consult the chanter's board while you take care of whatever your business is inside." With that Fenris skulked away to the rickety posting board standing beside Andraste.

Cullen quickly walked inside the quiet building, hoping to complete his errand before Fenris came looking for him. When Hawke had initially doled out assignments that morning, she had tasked Varric and Fenris to collect the jobs from the chanter's board and had invited Cullen to stay with her at the inn where she would hide out while in town, away from anyone who might recognize her. Needing an excuse to deliver Cassandra's message, he had asked instead to go to the Chantry.

"So long as you don't object, Hawke. My access to the Chantry has been, um, limited of late," he had added. It helped that this was the truth. It had been too long since he had experienced Andraste's grace or the certainty that came from Our Lady's service.

Hawke's eyes had bored into him, questioning, but he had evaded them. He was surprisingly discomfited from their exchange the night before, unsure what to think about her glib apologies but hating the confusion she had caused. He knew she would think he was avoiding her, and maybe he was.

Luckily, Varric had rescued him. "That's all right, Templar. You can go in my place." The dwarf had witnessed Cullen's devotions in Gwaren and seemed to partially understand his need. "I'll see if the constable's office has any work instead, Hawke, and then head over the market in case Blondie and Daisy need a hand." Hawke's keen gaze had lingered on Cullen a moment longer, but she had agreed.

It was still so early Cullen saw only one other parishioner who was leaving the Chantry as he entered. He hurried past the empty pews and guttering red candles straight toward the wooden confessional box. He slipped through the threadbare velvet curtain and into the darkened interior, kneeling down before the patched wooden screen to wait. Cullen was starting to get anxious, repeatedly imagining he heard Fenris's footfalls, when finally the door to the confessional clicked open. A shadowed figure settled down on the other side of the screen with a muffled yawn.

Cullen intoned the familiar words of the Chant, his voice still a little creaky.

"O Maker, hear my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
Make me to rest in the warmest places."

The sister responded in a bored voice. "The one who repents shall know true peace. Confess before the Maker and be absolved of your sin."

He cleared his throat nervously, hoping he remembered the phrase Cassandra had told him. "The dark star rises in the east, but the Light shall endure."

He heard a small gasp and then shifting and rustling from behind the screen, as if he had startled the sister into finally attending to what he was saying. The provincial chantry must rarely have seen the Seekers' secret network activated. She stammered, "Have you s-something to . . . to share, my son?"

"I do." He slipped the message along the side of the screen and it was immediately snatched away. He took a deep breath, relieved that the message was delivered and he could turn instead to his own troubled heart. He swallowed against his suddenly dry throat, the words of absolution eluding him as guilt clouded his purpose. "Oh Maker, forgive me. I . . . I fear that . . . I may have lost my way. I wonder if I truly do the Maker's work or—"

"Yes, yes, you have done His work, my son." She chuckled. "Rest at the Maker's hand and be Forgiven. Andraste's grace be with you." With those ceremonial words, she ended the confession. He sat there for a moment, blinking in surprise, and wondered if he'd heard her correctly. There were more rustling sounds and again the click of the confessional door. She must have assumed that his only purpose in coming to the Chantry was to drop off his illicit message. Nevertheless, he felt strangely forsaken. As if Andraste Herself had turned away from his prayers.

Disheartened, he stepped slowly out of the confessional. He started to leave but then sat down heavily on a pew at the back of the Chantry. He numbly watched the initiates scurry about the dais in preparation for the noontime Chant. Behind the dais, the giant statue of Andraste loomed over them, her blank eyes seeming blind to his problems. The dark maw in his chest threatened to swallow him. Was this a sign of things to come? Perhaps comfort would continue to elude him because of the deceitful role he played with Hawke.

He jumped when a slim, hooded figure abruptly slid into the pew beside him. The hooded face turned toward him and he saw Hawke's green eyes peer out at him for a moment before she turned back toward the dais in the guise of supplication. His eyes darted wildly, wondering how long she had been there and hoping she hadn't seen the sister's unseemly flight from the confessional.

"H-Hawke, what are you doing here?" he whispered furiously.

"I was concerned about you," came the muted response from within the hood.

"I don't need to be watched," he snarled. "Not any more." His resentment toward her flared almost uncontrollably.

Her head flew back to him, eyes wide in surprise. "I wasn't. Sweet Maker, I never meant . . ." She turned forward again and he heard a small sigh. "I'm not your keeper, Cullen. I was worried about _you_ , not about what you would _do_."

He turned back to the dais as well. "There's no need," he said gruffly, working hard to tamp down his anger.

"Look, I know it's been a while, but I used to think of us as friends, for all that we disagreed so often. So, I can't shake the feeling that you seem to feel uncomfortable around me for some reason."

He sighed inwardly. _Damn._ He had forgotten how tediously forthright she was. And inconveniently perceptive. That could be a problem.

One thing was clear; he had to do a better job of concealing his feelings. With so little need to maintain appearances in prison, he had grown careless with his thoughts and emotions. After all, from whom had he needed to hide? Then, after years of desensitization, there was little to hide anyway. But now that his emotions had started to reawaken in all their volatile glory, he seemed to wear them on his sleeve, for anyone to see. Anyone like Hawke. _Damn._

She studied his profile for a beat before continuing. "To be honest, I was worried that I upset you somehow last night. You won't even look at me today, so it seems I have crossed some line." A quick look at her revealed eyes that were deceptively earnest, annoyingly piercing. "Since that's the last thing I want to do," she continued, "I thought I should clear the air with you." She chuckled. "Of course, this would have been easier if you'd stayed with me at the inn, so . . . here I am, trespassing in the Maker's house."

"Hawke, there's no need," he repeated, thinking fast. "You risk yourself by coming out in the open."

She made an exaggerated show of looking around at the empty pews. "Not too many people to discover my presence here, I think," she said, a smile in her tone. "Anyway, if I did something. I don't know, for example, if kissing your cheek broke some templar chastity rule or something, I wanted to apologize." When he met her eyes he was struck by her sincerity. Despite the joking, she even seemed slightly embarrassed.

_Damn._

When he didn't say anything right away she barreled on. "You know, we move around so much and hide so much, that I only really spend time with my closest friends now. I realize that might make me a bit too familiar sometimes." She shrugged. "If so, I'm sorry."

_I lie to her, and she thanks me. I betray her, and she apologizes to me._

A quiet thought reminded him, _She betrayed you, too._ But this time, his righteousness was drowned out by shame.

 _No wonder Andraste won't hear my prayers_.

He cleared his throat noisily and ran his hand across his eyes. "No need to apologize, Hawke. You didn't cross a line. I think instead I need to become better accustomed to being around people again." He cleared his throat a second time. "Anyway, templars don't have chastity rules. And even if they did, they would no longer apply to me." There were certain expectations for templar behavior in that arena, since lasting relationships were strongly discouraged, so he had always avoided any extended entanglements. But now? It was a peculiar kind of freedom he'd never considered before.

She glanced at him again, the twinkle in her eye matching her suddenly mischievous smile, but all she said was, "Good to know."

He tried desperately to control the blush he felt warm his cheeks at discussing such a thing with her. He floundered for a safer topic, any other topic. "At any rate, I regret that my behavior today concerned you. To be quite frank, I was anxious about coming here. The Maker has felt rather distant to me, and I have a great disquiet in my soul." He spoke without thinking so was surprised to hear himself admit that to her—even if the truth of it was a good excuse.

"And, here I am disturbing your reunion with Him," she murmured. "I hope I don't get struck by lightning."

He couldn't help the smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Does that often happen to you in the Chantry?" He looked down at her and noticed for the first time the tiny dimple she had on one side when she grinned like that.

"I think I may just have been lucky so far," she said drily. "But, I doubt Andraste appreciates infidels like me under her roof. It seems disrespectful."

"I think Andraste offers comfort to all. _All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands, From the lowest slaves, To the highest kings_ ," he quoted.

"Even so, I think it is those who have true faith who deserve her comfort."

"So you think you are undeserving?"

She looked over at him, her brow creased slightly, like she wasn't sure if he was being serious. She frowned down at her hands where they sat in her lap. "I do," she whispered.

They sat quietly for a minute, each lost in their thoughts. Eventually, she asked, "Did you at least find what you were looking for?"

He sighed. "I don't know," he said. Then he shook his head. "No. Not really."

"Well . . ." She bit her lip, seeming to consider her words. "I don't know much about such things. But, you were in a very dark place, Cullen—literally, I imagine, as well as spiritually. I would just give yourself some time to find your way back to the Maker. I've heard He can be very forgiving." She grimaced. "If I were Him, I would be proud to have someone as devoted as you walking my path." She gave him a little smile, and then got up and left.

Bemused, he turned and watched her walk away. When she reached the door she turned back and smiled again. The sun had climbed high enough to slant in through the tall clerestory windows and its bright light suddenly enveloped her, gilding her features with righteous flame. Her green eyes blazed with a hint of heavenly glory and her smile was beatific and mysterious. He gaped at her, awestruck, but then the moment was gone and the door swung shut behind her.

He blinked and shook his head, wondering what exactly he had seen. Then, he heard the disembodied voice of a sister warming up to sing the Chant.

"The Light shall lead her safely  
Through the paths of this world, and into the next.  
For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.  
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,  
She should see fire and go towards Light."

His brow furrowed in puzzlement and he sat for a time contemplating whether he had received a sign after all. And if so, what it meant to tell him.

ooXXoo

When Cullen emerged from the dark chantry interior, the faithful were starting to arrive for the Chant. He saw a grumpy-looking Fenris leaning against a wooden fencepost and remembered at last that the elf was waiting for him. Automatically, he mumbled an apology.

Fenris grunted. "Hawke told me to wait until you were finished inside." He looked askance at all the townsfolk streaming through the doors. "But, I do not think we should linger."

Cullen nodded and fell in beside the elf as they headed back to the inn. In an effort to distract himself further from his odd experience at the Chantry, he asked, "Were there many jobs on the chanter's board?"

"Enough. Enough to keep us busy for the next few weeks."

"Then what will you do?"

"Then?" Fenris asked, dark eyebrows drawn down in confusion. "Why, then we'll move on to the next chanter's board."

"Oh. I see." Not that Cullen was sure he really did.

"Didn't there used to be more of you?" Cullen asked, still feeling uncharacteristically talkative with the grim elf. "I seem to remember the Guard Captain being part of Hawke's inner circle. And, perhaps a pirate?"

"Ah, _Captain_ Isabela is back at sea. Her activities necessarily keep her around Rivain these days. And, Aveline has settled down here in Ferelden. We see her occasionally, but she cannot travel as we do with her children."

 _Children?_ He remembered Aveline the most clearly of all Hawke's associates, due to their professional dealings when Aveline was captain of Kirkwall's Guard. It was nice to hear of someone successfully quitting the soldiering life and settling down. "How long have you all been traveling together like this?"

Fenris thought for a moment. "About two and a half years, I believe."

"Seems a rough life."

Fenris snorted. "So says the former Gallows' inmate."

Cullen nodded his head to the side once, acknowledging the man's point. Neither of them spoke again until shortly before they arrived at the inn.

"Does Hawke always have to hide out like this? Is she really in so much danger after all this time?" Cullen asked.

Something flashed deep in Fenris's eyes at the question, like the answer was much lengthier than the simple _yes_ he supplied. Cullen wondered at this as they entered the dim recesses of the inn.

Hawke was ensconced at a table in a back corner, smiling in amusement at her friends who were chatting animatedly around her.

"—still could have gotten him to go much lower," Varric said, talking slowly like he was explaining something to a child.

Merrill's pretty face was marred by a confused frown. "I still got it for a good price, Varric. There's no need to beggar the man."

"It's the principle of the thing, Daisy." Varric sounded wounded. "Even the vendor was disappointed you didn't haggle."

Anders laughed at this. "I think he was at that. You need to practice your poker face next time, Merrill, and at least make a few counteroffers."

Merrill sniffed disdainfully. "I should lie, you mean. No. If he sets a price for his hard work, then he should get it. We're not so poor that we need to steal from him."

"Much more of this, and we will be," Varric muttered.

Anders chuckled again, but his face closed off when he caught sight of Cullen and Fenris approaching. In an instant, his expression became frigid, his eyes again distrustful.

"Ah, there you are," Hawke said in a cheery voice, rubbing her palms together. "So, Fenris, what do you have for us today?"

The elf sat and pulled a small scrap of paper from a pouch at his waist. Sitting down next to Fenris, Cullen saw that the paper was almost bare but for a few words written in an unsteady scrawl. Fenris looked down at the paper, making as if to read from it, but he was clearly drawing mostly from memory since his words were much more detailed than what was on the page. He described some nearby bandit activity, some missing children, a little light guard duty for a caravan, plus some more trivial tasks. Varric added in help with a prisoner transfer from his visit with the constable.

Hawke nodded at each of these but didn't speak until they were done. "Good. I think of all those, I'd prioritize the missing children, then the bandits. Other thoughts?"

They engaged in a wide ranging discussion of the various tasks, how long they would take and the sort of supplies they might need. Cullen just listened as the group made a show of squabbling over the details, but in reality they were all in complete agreement and functioning like clockwork. He let their easy camaraderie wash over him, pretending for a moment that it included him even though he contributed nothing and only nodded when appropriate.

This unexpected feeling of contentment was interrupted when he started to feel a faint humming run along his nerves and tickling just under his skin. He had started to scratch the inside of one wrist raw before he realized what he was doing.

_What is that sound?_

The humming settled at the base of his skull, making it difficult to think or concentrate any longer on the discussion. His throat felt dry and no amount of swallowing seemed to slake it or remove the odd metallic tang on his tongue. He looked down at his hand on the table and saw that it trembled noticeably. To hide it, and to distract himself from the insistent hum, he started drumming his fingers on the table. That was when he noticed the small drip of sweat fall on the back of his hand. Reaching up, he felt his forehead beaded with wetness.

_What is that sound?_

"Cullen, are you all right?" The words sounded like they were coming from far away. He tried to focus on them, and then saw Hawke looking at him, brow creased in concern. "Cullen? What is it?"

His eyes darted feverishly around the table, noticing that everyone was now staring at him, and then at last he saw it. Sitting at the other end of the table, its blue light beaming enticingly, was a series of lyrium vials lined up all in a row on the stained, oaken tabletop. The cool pool of light surrounding the vials seemed to draw him in while its brilliance felt like hundreds of needles burning through his eyes and into his brain. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the enchanting blue liquid, its song now drowning out all other sound. It called to him, singing of need, power . . . and madness.

Then, he stiffened when a hand roughly pulled on his arm. "Cullen!" Hawke was right in his face now, seeming to want something from him. She looked away, over her shoulder. "Dammit, Anders, I said put them away now! . . . I don't care where. Just out of sight. Do it!"

Then, the humming fell silent, leaving behind a chill on his skin which was drenched in sweat and a hollow longing at the back of his mind. Cullen licked his dry lips and tried to clear his throat, which just made a dry rattling sound and ended in a wracking cough.

"Here. Drink this." A large earthen mug of water was shoved in his face, so he drank. The water immediately soothed his raw throat and cooled down his overheated body. When it was gone, he gingerly set the cup on the table and wiped his mouth with a still shaking hand. He glanced at Hawke who was watching him intently. When he attempted a weak smile of reassurance, she nodded once. "You all carry on with the planning. Cullen and I are going for a walk."

He tried to argue, but she ignored him, grabbing his arm more tightly and yanking him to his feet. "Let's go, Templar." She then propelled him out the door and into the sunlight and fresh air.

He took great gulping breaths, discovering that the fresh air helped immensely. His mind started to clear and he could feel his body temperature returning to normal. He looked over at Hawke who watched him with her head cocked to one side and an inscrutable look on her face. She motioned down the street with a nod of her head. "Come on."

He nodded and followed her. They walked in silence away from the crowded town center, past busy townsfolk who hurried by without giving them a second glance. Hawke paced beside him, matching his long stride. As the last traces of fog left his brain he started to notice more of the details around them. They were approaching the edge of town where there were now as many fields and animal enclosures as houses, and passersby were rare. They had come farther than he'd realized. Too far for a casual chat.

Hawke slowed down and headed toward an ancient tree with broad branches that shaded most of the well-traveled road but also shielded her from anyone who might walk by. Warily, he joined her. She leaned a shoulder against the tree's massive trunk before she turned to address him. "So. Was that a sign of lyrium addiction or withdrawal?"

Thinking again of his extreme reaction, he passed a trembling hand across his eyes. "I am no longer addicted, if that's what you're asking."

"So withdrawal, then."

"Not . . . precisely. I . . ." He took a deep breath. "Well, I am not quite sure. That was the first time I've encountered lyrium in, um, several years."

Her eyes narrowed and then widened as realization hit her. "So, you broke your lyrium addiction while in prison?"

"Yes," he said flatly, finding it difficult to think about that particularly harrowing period of his life. He should have died. Most templar did when they quit lyrium cold turkey. His jailers hadn't seemed to care what happened to him. They certainly weren't going to supply an inmate with the valuable substance. In fact, they probably thought his withdrawal symptoms would aid in his interrogation, unbalancing him sufficiently that he would finally reveal what they wanted to know. But he had had nothing left to reveal, so instead he had descended into madness for a time.

Luckily he remembered little of it until he woke up lucid one day, the light from his tiny, barred window streaming across his face. In that moment, he had been infused with the feeling of warmth, lightness and hope. It had taken some time for him to fully recover his strength, but his lyrium dependence had been broken. By some miracle, he had lived through it.

He looked over at her and for a moment thought he saw the unbearable compassion back in her eyes, but when she spoke, her tone was all business, her expression unreadable. "I see." She pushed away from the tree and when she stood before him the compassion was definitely gone. She had switched again into her serious mode and a dangerous light shined from her eyes. "You should know that, although it can be hard for us to track it down sometimes, lyrium is something Anders does use regularly. Is that going to be a problem?"

A warning bell went off in the back of his head and he had the sudden instinct to grip his sword as they faced each other, completely alone on the deserted road. He thought about the various things he could say to reassure her, to answer her challenge and diffuse the situation, but instead he said, "I don't know. I would like to think that next time I will be prepared to better control my reaction. But I cannot make any promises."

He tensed himself for her response, every muscle alert and ready to defend himself, but all she did was nod her head. "Then that will have to do." He almost jumped when suddenly she grinned. "It's not like we needed more reasons for you to stay away from Anders, but I think this is another good one." She nodded back toward town. "Come on, let's get back."

Confused by her mixed signals, he didn't follow immediately, feeling a chill as his adrenalin rush subsided. She looked back at him with eyebrows raised. "Coming?"

He let out a breath and cautiously moved to walk beside her. After a few minutes he said, "I had thought perhaps you'd taken me out here to jettison a problem."

She glanced at him sidelong, the dimple peeping out. "You have trust issues, don't you?"

"I . . . No . . . I . . . Well . . . Why else isolate me from the rest of your friends?"

She chuckled. "I was giving you a moment to compose yourself, away from prying eyes. Not a lot of privacy in a group like ours sometimes." They walked for a few more minutes before she stopped and faced him, compassion and something else he couldn't identify in her eyes. "Cullen, hopefully you'll soon learn that we don't operate that way." She reached out and put her hand on his arm, just above his gauntlet, and he struggled not to pull away from the invasive touch. "You don't have to trust me just yet, because I trust you. For now, I think that's enough." She gave him an encouraging smile and started walking again, thankfully not waiting for a response.

He couldn't say anything to that since the only word that sprang to his lips was, _Fool_. How had Hawke survived so long with such instincts? He should be delighted that his plan was working, that she had accepted him into her group without question, but instead he had a sick feeling in the bottom of his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: _Chapter 5: An Act of Penance_ , will show us how Cullen is fitting in a few weeks later as he launches into the next phase of his plan. Thanks so much for reading!


	5. An Act of Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks later, Cullen is finally finding his place in Hawke's group and looks for his opportunity to convince her to save the world.

_Southron Hills  
Ferelden_

"Chickens?"

A cloud of white feathers choked the air, clinging to clothes and hair like a mini snow storm, as Hawke and friends scurried around the barn trying to catch the errant birds. Merrill sat on the floor holding two chickens in her arms, each simultaneously trying to fly in opposite directions while Varric cautiously dragged a chicken-laden crate over to her. Hawke, white feathers standing out in stark contrast from her dark hair, was working with Anders and Fenris to corner several birds. Cullen stood rigidly in the center of the barn, hands full of a squawking chicken that struggled to be free, and glared balefully at Hawke. She scrambled after an escapee and then turned toward him with a questioning look.

"Chickens?" he asked again.

Her face cracked into a grin. "Yes," she stated.

"Chickens?" he said with greater incredulity, finally tossing the desperately flapping bird into the crate at his side and slamming down the lid. He looked back at Hawke, crossing his arms sternly. "What in the world would possess you take up such an ignominious task as . . . chickens?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "The farmer needs them back. These are desperate times, Cullen, and we help whoever needs helping."

The chickens were merely the latest in a series of increasingly mundane assignments Hawke had undertaken in the weeks since he had joined them. As Fenris had speculated, they had continued to travel from town to town, chanter's board to chanter's board, executing minor fetch and carry tasks for the populace of Thedas. After the missing children and bandits around Bremen, there had been misplaced cargo and smugglers in a nearby port town. But, then they had gone further inland, to smaller villages tucked amongst the Southron Hills, and the tasks became smaller. Rooting out snakes in a farmer's field. Hunting down a rampaging bear. Delivering love letters for a self-important bureaucrat. And now, tracking down stolen chickens.

Cullen had toed the line uncomplainingly until now, doing his best to insinuate himself with the group. Or at least, with everyone except Anders. He did his share of standing watch and collecting firewood, took his lumps as the only frontline defender in heavy armor, and even bravely attempted to make dinner one night before Merrill had chased him away in alarm. He had played the good little soldier, quietly following orders, all the while watching for an opening to convince Hawke to get involved with the war.

In fact, it had turned into a sort of habit of his during quiet moments. Time and again, he found himself watching Hawke. He knew he only did it to further his mission, but he found he sometimes couldn't look away. It was how he had noticed the rare moments when she seemed to let her guard down, anxiously spinning a small lock of hair around her finger while doubt and worry creased her brow, but only when she thought no one was looking. Despite these momentary lapses, her power and skill were undeniable, if only she would apply them to something more significant than . . . chickens.

He was beginning to despair that these were the sort of activities she now felt were worthy of her abilities. Had the hero lost her taste for bigger problems? Did she really prefer to do this instead of helping set the world to rights? He wasn't sure why this suddenly offended him, except that this latest job was the proverbial feather that broke the bronto's back.

"Chickens?" His voice went up until he was almost shouting. "The mighty Champion of Kirkwall is herding chickens. Maker's Breath, Hawke, this is what you've been reduced to?"

She blinked twice and then instead of getting offended, her grin grew broader, her tiny dimple making an appearance. "Are chickens beneath your templar dignity, Cullen? What if we found you some demon chickens? Would that make it better?"

Varric gave a bark of laughter at this. "And, lo the silent templar spoke and righteously smote the demon chickens."

"And, Andraste smiled, saying to the people, _let them eat chicken_ , and there was much rejoicing," Anders added with one of his rare flashes of humor, hearkening back to the bitter wisecracker Cullen had once known in Kinloch Hold.

Cullen could feel the blush working its way up his neck to his cheeks, which felt white hot. He still wasn't sure why he was pushing the issue, when he added, "At least demon chickens might provide an appropriate challenge. This seems a bit of a waste of your talents."

Hawke got very still, a sign Cullen was starting to recognize that she was switching into her serious mode. "We go where we're needed," she said in clipped tones. She started scooping up the cornered chickens and throwing them roughly into a crate. When they were all confined, she turned on her heel and left the barn without a backward glance.

Cullen sighed inwardly, yet again realizing after the fact that insulting her was probably not his best strategy for maintaining trust. He was startled by a clap on his arm, still flinching at the contact after his weeks of freedom.

"Don't worry, Templar," Varric said. "Hawke never stays mad long. Even when you question her leadership skills." The dwarf chuckled and walked away, leaving Cullen to underscore _inability to mask his emotions_ on his growing list of personal character traits he still had to work on.

ooXXoo

Cullen waited while Varric and the others returned the farmer's chickens, almost automatically heading to the isolated farmstead's modest chapel. Stepping into the small, open-air enclosure, he nodded companionably to the worn yet lovingly maintained figure of Andraste at the entrance, but then he froze when he saw Hawke in the long shadows near the shrine.

She didn't notice him right away and in that unguarded moment, he saw again that vulnerability she normally kept hidden. A shadow dimmed her bright eyes as she watched the flickering votive candle she had lit. _What would worry her so that she would seek out Andraste?_ A moment later she sensed his presence, swinging around and shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, but she relaxed as soon as she recognized him.

Putting aside his fascination with finding her there, of all places, he abruptly recalled their earlier disagreement. He was completely at a loss for what to say, so he stayed put near the door. The silence drew out, becoming awkward, when finally she grimaced and said, "I thought I would take your advice and see if Andraste would offer any comfort to an infidel."

He smiled at this reminder of their conversation at the Bremen chantry. "And?"

"Nothing so far. But maybe I'm doing it wrong."

"There is no wrong way to do it, Hawke," he said gently. "You just listen and feel." He looked away. "Or so I seem to recall . . ." he added under his breath.

Her lips twisted in the approximation of a smile. "Maybe this shrine is just too small for Her to hear us."

"It doesn't matter what—" he began, but then stopped when he noticed her eyes twinkle merrily at him. He flushed, belatedly recognizing the joke. "Right."

She looked back at the candle for a moment and shrugged. "No matter. It seems I am to be thwarted on all sides today," she said, cocking an eyebrow pointedly at him.

Not knowing what else to do, he took a deep breath and confronted his misstep head on. "I'm sorry for challenging you earlier."

"No, you're not."

He frowned in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're not sorry. Not really. You were just speaking your mind. As I hope you always would." She gave him a quick smile. "Frankly, it was kind of nice to see the Knight-Captain reassert himself."

He took a breath to correct her, but she waved him off. "I know, I know, you're no longer a templar officer, but those instincts will always be a part of you. It's not a bad thing."

"Nevertheless, I shouldn't be questioning your orders, no matter what I think, and not in front of the others."

"So, what _do_ you think?"

_Damn. Now what have I gotten myself into?_

"It is not for me to say," he mumbled.

"But, it is. Especially when I'm asking. I'd like to know."

He avoided her eyes and tried to decide how honest he should be. Was this his opening at last? He wasn't sure. There were still too many things he didn't understand about her motivations.

She waited expectantly while he said nothing. "You're not wrong, you know," she said. "Chickens are hardly the most illustrious task we've undertaken. I'm sure there are many who would agree with you that jobs like this are a bit beneath the so-called Champion of Kirkwall's dignity. A bit too safe." Her eyes flicked for a moment toward the distant farmhouse. "Probably even some of our companions would as well. But that's exactly the reason I do it."

He frowned again at this so she continued. "Who else will take on these jobs, regardless of prestige or reward? Who else do the regular people have now that the whole of Thedas—even the Chantry itself—is almost solely focused on the war?" She looked down at the single glowing candle. "I know there are more prestigious jobs to be done, more significant and dangerous jobs, but I know I make difference here, however small. That's enough."

She spoke her last words very softly. Almost as if she was convincing herself. _That's enough_. He had heard her say something similar before, as if, despite her grand intentions and heroic reasoning, she was really just treading water, doing just enough to get by. Enough to allow herself to sleep at night. _Is this the despair I see in her sometimes?_

As her introspection drew out, he finally felt compelled to say something. "If that is enough, then who am I to question?" he said lightly, adding a smile for good measure and hoping he sounded lighthearted enough to move past her discomfiture. And his.

She gave him a measuring look, studying his face like she was seriously considering how to answer his mostly rhetorical question. "Who, indeed, Ser Cullen?" Then suddenly the catlike intensity was back in her eyes, along with something else he couldn't quite name but gave him an odd lurch in the pit of his stomach. Her lips curled into a sly smile. "Now that's a question I'll have to leave for another day." She chuckled and left him to his prayers.

He turned back to the shrine and lit another candle off of Hawke's, setting it down beside hers. He watched the twin flames dance, but all he could see was a pair of twinkling green eyes.

ooXXoo

Everyone was subdued around the fire that night. Varric and Fenris played cards, but without the usual taunting and joking. Merrill was organizing some supplies in her pack that to Cullen's untrained eye seemed already rather tidy. He didn't know where Hawke and Anders had gotten to, and there was an odd tension in the group around him that he didn't understand.

Soon, he heard voices approaching that sounded angry. At the same time, the others around the fire started to shift uncomfortably. Varric deftly gathered up his cards and Merrill dumped her supplies back into her pack. Cullen heard a murmured, "Not again," but couldn't place exactly who had said it. Within moments, the fire was empty but for him, everyone else finding sundry excuses to slip away into the darkness. Curious, Cullen listened to the voices more closely and recognized Hawke and Anders. They were arguing, apparently a familiar occurrence, judging from the others' reactions.

" —templar was right about one thing. We need to be smarter about our actions, Hawke. Now that we know for certain that the Chantry is searching for us, too, we have to go underground. Stop these damn fool mercy quests and disappear. You know it's only a matter of time before they find us!"

"Anders, I'm not discussing this again. We already stick to some of the safest jobs around. But, we can't be of any help to anyone if we start hiding out in a cave somewhere. No matter who is after us."

"But what good are we to anyone if we're dead?"

She laughed bitterly. "Once again placing your own life above everyone else's?"

There was a pause before Anders answered in a low, tight voice. "That is _not_ what I did. I was ready to pay with my life. You know that."

"Well, now we're all paying."

"Oh, that's right!" Anders said, drawing the words out with an ugly, ironic tone. " _I_ was the one who destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry. _I_ sparked the mage uprising. And the war. And the misery and destruction. All my fault." Anders gave a harsh bark of unconvincing laughter. "Not something you'll ever let me forget, is it?"

"Your words. Not mine," she replied in clipped tones.

"We spend every waking minute taking on these petty jobs, healing penniless villagers, fighting off bullies and marauders, practically for free. How long are we going to do penance? When are you ever going to forgive me?"

"It's not me who needs to forgive you. It's Grand Cleric Elthina. The many innocent brothers and sisters who died. It's Sebastian, who lost his whole world that day. It's the small-town villager who hides in fear from the war around him."

Anders made a frustrated sound deep in his throat. "Of course it's you, Hawke! Because you're the one who keeps punishing me! Every day now. For three years! When will it ever be enough?" The anguished question spoke of deep wounds that may never have fully healed.

For a few moments Cullen heard nothing, not even the sound of movement, but he could clearly picture the uncomfortable showdown occurring in the darkness just yards away.

While he waited for them continue, he considered what he'd just heard of their reasoning for providing the kind of assistance they did. A number of pieces of the puzzle quickly fell into place. Penance was certainly a powerful motivator. One he quickly realized he might be able to capitalize on.

Finally, Hawke continued, her voice tense with barely contained anger. "Sometimes I don't think I even know who you are any more. Anders, do you even see the chaos sewn by your actions?"

"Yes, Hawke, I see it," he hissed. "And, do you want me to say I regret it? That I regret that I succeeded in changing the status quo? That I regret making the Chantry and the templars re-examine their treatment of mages? That the whole world must now start from scratch and create a new system from the ground up? Well, I won't!"

"Yes, you shook up the Chantry, but you also upset the lives of everyone in Thedas from the bottom up. From the hedge witch healer who is now shunned by her village to the civilian refugees who have had to flee the violence to . . . to . . . upstanding templars like Cullen, who tried to do their best for the mages, who now have no livelihood, no purpose."

"Cullen? Are you kidding me? He would have volunteered to be the first to light my pyre when they burn me at the stake." Anders snorted. "Is that what this is about? Your new project? I've seen you coddling him." Hearing the venom in Anders' voice, Cullen could almost see the sneer that must be twisting the mage's face. "Need someone else to fix?" Anders said.

"What, you mean because I failed with you?" Hawke's voice was pitched low, but her tone was so cold that Cullen could only imagine the deep seated fury behind it.

Cullen then heard a crashing through the brush, indicating that Anders must have stormed off. After a few moments, Hawke walked into the circle of light around the fire but stopped short when she saw Cullen.

After a pregnant pause, she lightly brushed her fingertips underneath one eye and hugged her arms across her body. "Hmm, I suppose you heard all of that?" she said, her voice slightly deeper than normal.

Cullen shrugged, turning his eyes to the flickering depths of the fire. "Not my business." He decided to ignore the fact that they'd been talking about him. Examining his purpose, or lack thereof, required far more introspection than he was comfortable with at the moment.

She gave an awkward laugh, looking around at the empty camp. "I suppose it really isn't coincidence that the fire is usually empty after such fights with Anders, is it?" She plopped down in the dirt next to him, and also stared into the flames.

He pressed his lips together. "You can pretend I'm not here, if it would help."

She glanced at him and then turned back to the fire with a smile. "Sorry to say it, Cullen, but it's rather impossible not to notice you. Especially when I'm mortified that you overheard us talking about you."

He shrugged again. That part was really of no interest to him. But then he heard himself say, "There are certainly more worthy . . . _projects_."

She looked him up and down for a moment, and the close scrutiny made his skin thrum strangely. "Forgive me, but I beg to differ. I think getting you back up on your feet again would be an eminently worthy project. It would be the least I could do." She grinned suddenly and added casually, " _If_ you were actually a project, that is."

"Yes, _if_." His lips twitched for a second. They sat in companionable silence when an idea began to take hold of him. A clever but risky idea. His eyes darted to her for a second before he added, "Well, perhaps I should be looking at myself as a . . . project. It's true. I am a bit aimless right now."

She gave a weary sigh and then leaned back on her arms, crossing her long legs at the ankles. "Not everything has to be a monumental quest to save the world, Cullen. Sometimes, it's okay to just be." She looked up at the stars as she said this and almost sounded like she believed it.

He licked his lips and marshaled his courage. "You know, I've been thinking about what Varric said. About how the Chantry itself is reaching out for help in stopping the war. And, you're right. I really have nothing left without the Order. But, maybe, if I could get the templars to listen to reason. To . . . to parley with the mages, maybe that would be a meaningful goal. Finally a purpose." He kept his eyes on the fire but let his forehead crinkle in introspection and pain.

"You think they'd listen to you?" she asked. She'd questioned the same thing about herself when they'd first discussed Cassandra's request. He hoped that meant that he'd piqued her interest.

"I don't know," he said truthfully. "I was one of them once. But now, after what happened at the Gallows, I don't really have a side. Maybe that would be enough." He sighed. "I think it's worth at least trying."

Watching him, she gave a slow, lopsided smile. "So, you're planning on riding off to wherever the templars are billeted, alone, and what? Walking into their camp, smiling that little smile of yours and asking really nicely?"

He ignored her comment about his smile, whatever that was supposed to mean. He looked at her sidelong and forced himself to grin bashfully. "Indeed, it would be easier if I were not alone."

"Um, I'm not exactly on speaking terms with the Order right now, if you'll recall." She gave a short huff of laughter. "I'd have a better chance of talking the mages out of the war."

He calmed the sudden racing of his heart and tried to sound casual as he brought her around to exactly where he wanted her. "You know, that is true. Perhaps . . . perhaps, between the two of us, we could talk both sides into it. Perhaps you and I . . . perhaps we could actually accomplish this." He turned to look at her directly, which made her meet his eyes. He summoned up as much sincerity as he could as she studied him.

"You're really serious about this, aren't you?" she said. "You think we can stop a war."

He took a deep breath. "I think _together_ we could stop the war. And, I think we owe it to ourselves, to Thedas, to those who have died, to at least try." He licked his lips again nervously. "I know it's not . . . chickens, Hawke, but this is also a way you could make a tangible difference. For everyone." Hoping that wasn't too heavy handed, he held his breath while she watched him with that unnerving, measuring look in her eye again.

Finally, she looked away into the darkness. "What if it can't be done?" It was interesting that she continued to mimic his own questions about the mission. Their fool's errand. Luckily, that gave him some ready-made answers.

"I hope that is not the case. All our futures depend on it."

She was silent for so long he thought she was going to reject the idea again. He watched a series of different emotions flit across her face as she considered it. It was fascinating how open and honest she was about her feelings, as if she had nothing to hide. And nothing to lose. The one expression that baffled him was a kind of fierce joy that blazed from her eyes as she stared blankly into the flames. At last, she chuckled and shook her head. "Anders isn't going to like this." She looked over at Cullen, giving him a warm smile that he returned in honest delight.

 _Success!_ Almost giddy with relief, he decided to let the topic lie for the moment. Instead, he switched to a potentially safer question that had been on his mind. He tried to sound indifferent, but he had to know, for the sake of the mission. "So, Anders. Are you two . . .?"

"Oh, sweet Maker, no! It's been quite a while since we've been anything more than a couple of friends who quarrel too much." She sighed. "And sometimes I wonder if we're even that any more."

Cullen couldn't think of anything else to say to that, suddenly unsure where he was going with such personal matter, but then she continued. "You know, he was once so idealistic. So bright and shiny, with his admirable cause." She glanced sidelong at Cullen. "Admirable, in that treating mages fairly and with respect is an admirable goal," she said archly, parroting one of their many arguments about the Circle over the years. "But, I think . . . I think he lost his way as Vengeance increasingly clouded his mind. I think the Anders I knew is gone now. Even without Vengeance, he's a changed man."

"Vengeance?" It was strange how she spoke of the concept, almost like it had a will of its own.

She ducked her head and started twirling a wisp of hair around a finger. "Erm, yes, Vengeance. I suppose . . . Well, if we're working together, you might as well know the whole truth. Cullen, Anders was once host to the spirit of Justice, a seemingly benign spirit he befriended in the Fade. Or so Anders claims. Unfortunately, Anders's bitterness ultimately transformed Justice into Vengeance, who in turn destroyed the Chantry. And started the war."

Cullen blinked, completely floored by this explanation, and his dormant templar sensibilities erupted in outrage. "Anders is an abomination?" he asked, his voice going up an octave in incredulity.

"Not any more," she said quickly. "After everything with the Chantry, and Meredith, the spirit seems to have left him. Now all that's left is a bitter, aimless shell."

He shook his head. "They never learn. Not until it's too late." His training screamed at him to do something about Anders, the abomination, even if Hawke claimed the demon was gone. Such impulses could ruin everything. But wasn't it his duty to do something? Did he even have a duty any more? His mind spun in circles without answers as his old instincts continued to reassert themselves, impotently.

When he looked at Hawke, he saw that she had been watching him, watching the conflict rage inside him—and likely all across his face as well.

 _I really have to work on that_ , he thought idly. Dealing with people again was making his emotions increasingly hard to manage.

"Hawke," he started, his voice stern.

"I know," she said. "Believe me, I know. But, Cullen, there's no longer a demon to smite, no longer anyone to protect. Unless it's protecting Anders from himself. I think that, for all his righteousness, after everything that's happened, I think he's lost his way. Without his grand cause, he's broken now. And, I don't know how to fix him."

 _Broken like me_ , came the unbidden thought, startling Cullen into an introspective frown. Unexpectedly, Hawke reached out and took his hand, and he flushed at the realization that he must have spoken aloud. He started to pull his hand away out of habit, but stopped himself with some effort. "You, on the other hand, Ser Cullen, are decidedly fixable. I'll stake my oath on it," she said. The grin she gave him was so full of charm and certainty that he found himself wanting to believe her. Slowly, he gave her a tentative answering smile.

"Should I come back later?" asked an acerbic voice that dripped with sarcasm.

Cullen and Hawke each spun around to see Anders standing at the edge of the firelight. His lip was curled in contempt while his eyes darted between them. Hawke immediately snatched her hand back from Cullen's, the motion drawing Anders's attention. He glared at Cullen, but Cullen merely gazed back, undaunted. Whatever issue the man was having with Hawke, it had nothing to do with him.

"Of course not, Anders. Sit down," Hawke said, rubbing a hand across her eyes.

Anders approached the fire to stand over them and glower down at Cullen. "You sure I'm not interrupting anything?" he sneered.

Next thing he knew, Cullen was on his feet and coolly looking Anders in the eye. Standing mere inches away, eyes locked with the mage's, Cullen childishly appreciated his slight height advantage. "Is there a problem, abomination?" he asked in a tense, quiet voice.

Anders's face went purple in rage and he rounded on Hawke with fists clenched. "You _told_ him? _Him_? Hawke, what were you thinking?"

Cullen automatically stepped between them, eyes never wavering from the mage while his hand settled on his sword pommel. "I think we should all know the danger that lurks in our midst, mage." He started to draw in his power, ready to dispel anything Anders might throw at him.

Anders took a step toward him. "You want danger in our midst? How about allowing one of Meredith's vipers to snuggle up to our breast, earning our trust but ready to strike when we least suspect it?"

The truth in the mage's words struck Cullen almost like a physical blow. All at once, his righteousness evaporated and it was all he could do to hold Anders's furious gaze and not look away in shame.

"Anders, that's enough!" Hawke snapped, not bothering to get up. "From both of you. I won't have you two re-enacting the mage-templar war around my campfire. We'll be embroiled in it soon enough."

Anders narrowed his eyes at her. "Embroiled in . . .? Hawke, what have you done?"

She looked up at him, jaw jutted out pugnaciously. "I've decided we're going to do what we can to stop the war."

The shock on Anders's face seemed to have wiped away his rage, and Cullen was immediately forgotten. "Hawke, have you completely lost all sense of self-preservation?" he asked softly. "This is exactly the _opposite_ of what I was recommending. Now you'll only become a target. Why?"

"Anders, how better to make up for what we've done? If there is any chance we can stop things before they go too far, we have to try." Her tone pleaded for understanding.

The former lovers gazed intently at each other as if having a private argument Cullen couldn't hear. Cullen rubbed his neck and looked off into the darkness, trying to imagine where the others had gone. He had started to drift away himself when Hawke said, "Cullen, stay."

"I think perhaps you two should—"

"No, you're a part of this, too. Stay. Please."

The entreaty in her eyes puzzled him. Was she asking for his help? Did she not want to be left alone with Anders? Cullen sighed. These were exactly the sort of messy, personal situations he had always avoided, preferring to keep his friendships more professional. Yet, there he was, acquiescing despite his misgivings. He crossed his arms where he stood and deliberately avoided Anders's accusatory gaze, making the difficult decision not to goad the man any further.

"So, this is his doing?" the mage spat. "He talked you into throwing your life away in a futile quest to save Thedas from itself?"

"This isn't about him, Anders. It's about doing what's right, whether or not it's futile. We have to try."

Anders drew himself up and nodded slowly. "I see. You think this will finally clear your conscience? Clear _my_ conscience? No need, Hawke. No need." He pivoted on his heel and strode off into the darkness again.

Hawke watched Anders go, and Cullen had to look away from the raw pain on her face. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, like she was trying to warm herself. "I'm sorry about that," she mumbled. "He shouldn't have . . . Thank you for staying."

"No apology necessary, Hawke. I don't think it is actually possible for Anders to like me any less." She smiled at him gratefully while tugging on a stray wisp of hair above her ear. Cullen looked over at the spot where the mage has just disappeared. "Of course, such agitation could overset his control. I wonder if perhaps I should—" He turned to follow the man when she interrupted him.

"No. Cullen, really, you don't need to worry about his control. Despite his excitability, he always has a firm grasp on his power and his connection to the Fade. Especially now that it's just . . . him in there."

"All it takes is once."

Her lips twisted in amusement. "Listen to you. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were a templar."

He scowled at her but remained where he was. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were just looking for an _excuse_ to run off and save the world," he shot back without thinking.

A peculiar mocking light appeared in her eyes. "You got me. You've discovered my secret messiah complex." She gave a bitter huff of laughter. "Or death wish. Take your pick."

 _Interesting._ "Which would you pick, Hawke?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

Her eyes darted to his for a second and suddenly back was the hunted look he had noticed upon first encountering her again. "It doesn't really matter."

Could there be something more driving her? Something that would explain why her friends were so overly protective of her when she was so formidable in her own right?

Intrigued, he mused aloud, "And, which would Anders pick, I wonder?"

She shot him a scathing look and her face settled into hard lines. "Luckily, he doesn't get to pick," she said quellingly. She rolled to her feet. "Goodnight, Cullen." A minute later, she was tucked in her bedroll some distance from the fire, with her back turned to him.

He looked up at the night sky, admiring the cool light of the solitary moon, blessedly alone among the sea of twinkling stars. "Goodnight," he whispered to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: _Chapter 6: She Who Has Faith_ , where we'll see the implications of Hawke's rash decision. Thanks for sticking with me! :)


	6. She Who Has Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning, Hawke faces up to her rash decision and puts plans in motion, including another awkward visit to the Chantry with Cullen.

_Southron Hills_   
_Ferelden_

Cullen almost pitied Hawke when Anders ambushed her the next morning, obnoxiously announcing to everyone her decision about the war. First, a shocked silence had fallen followed by a flurry of concerned questions. As the discussion grew louder and more chaotic around her, Cullen caught the gleam of satisfaction in Anders's eyes.

"Enough!" Hawke finally said, drawing a weary hand across her eyes. "Let's discuss this rationally, shall we?" She plopped down on top of her pack and motioned for everyone to do the same. Her friends slowly settled into a circle around her while Cullen remained where he was, standing just outside the group and looking in.

"I know we already discussed this. But I've reconsidered. I doubt any of you would disagree that stopping the war is a worthwhile goal. I happen to believe this is as worthy a task as what we've been doing." Her eyes flicked for an instant to Cullen. "I also know it's much more risky. Believe me. So, I want everyone to really think about it and whether they want to come along on this one. I understand if it's too much to ask."

"So, let me get this straight, Hawke," Varric said. "Our goal is really to try to stop the war? Didn't we decide that this was too big a task even for us?"

"Well, I don't imagine us riding out into the middle of a battle and convincing everyone to lay down arms. But, I think we could find a way to talk to the leaders on both sides and try to convince them to at least come to the table and talk. We . . ." She glanced at Cullen again. "We are in a unique position that we could probably get access to both sides. I don't think we can solve every problem that sparked the war. Fenris was right; they need to do that on their own. But, if we could at least get them talking instead of fighting, I think we'll have done our job."

"But, Hawke, do you really think they'll talk to us? I see the mages doing so, but I thought the templars don't exactly like us very much any more," Merrill said.

"Indeed," Fenris rumbled. "They may in fact kill us on sight."

"But we also have a templar on our side who can get us access," she said, looking at Cullen. He bit his tongue on the involuntary correction that rose to his lips and instead nodded wordlessly.

"Lovely. You mean you're depending on a fallen knight, whose own people imprisoned him, to get you back into their good graces?" Anders asked, notably using _you_ instead of _we_.

"But now he's been exonerated. He's an outside party now, but also a known quantity. I doubt anyone would ever question Cullen's integrity again," Hawke said. A muscle jumped along Cullen's jaw as he ground his teeth at Hawke's misplaced faith in him.

Varric stroked his chin. "You know, it could actually work. Cassandra did seem to think Hawke had the appropriate pull to do this sort of thing. Perhaps they would listen after all."

"If the Seekers want Hawke to do this, does that mean they would help us?" Merrill asked.

Anders snorted. "Oh right, lead the Chantry straight to Kirkwall's most wanted? Besides, the mages would never talk to a Chantry representative. It's why they want Hawke to do it all."

"True, the mages would never trust the Chantry," Varric said.

"Nor should we, for that matter," Anders muttered.

"But, I heard that the templars abandoned the Chantry because of rumors the Divine supports the mages," Merrill added in a hopeful voice.

Varric laughed. "Which makes my point even further. Now no one trusts the Chantry."

Fenris was frowning. "So, assuming we actually talk both sides into a parley, where would it take place? Where would either side consider neutral enough or safe enough?"

"I'd been thinking that the Divine could host something," Hawke said, "but I suppose Val Royeaux is probably out."

"Right. Plus, with the civil war there, I think we want to avoid Orlais altogether, if possible," Varric said. "Hmm. Everyone we knew who had any kind of standing in Kirkwall is dead now. Who else is big enough to host something like this?"

"We're in Ferelden. What about King Alistair?" Fenris asked.

Hawke laughed. "Who would listen to a Fereldan?"

"Precisely," Fenris said. "Ferelden is not exactly a player in the world of Chantry politics. Plus, King Alistair himself has no clear allegiance to either side. He's a Grey Warden. Chantry raised, templar trained, but is also known to support fair treatment of mages. He's friends with the Hero of Ferelden, who is a mage. He's generally well liked. If he hosted peace talks, the participants might actually come."

"The elf has a point," Varric mused. "Then the question becomes, how do we get access to a king in order to talk him into it?"

"I thought he was the sort of king that everyone knew," Merrill said.

Hawke laughed. "I've never heard that he's the wandering type. Poor Queen Elissa."

"No, no," Merrill said, "I mean, isn't he supposed to have the common touch? You think he really wouldn't see us? After all, Hawke, didn't you meet him that one time in Kirkwall?"

"As the Champion of Kirkwall, sure, but without that special status I'm just another rootless Fereldan," Hawke said. "I can't imagine there's any way they'd just let us into the palace. At least not without possibly arresting us in the process. We could . . . I don't know, sneak in? Or, waylay him when he somewhere away from Denerim? He must leave the palace, right?"

"Since he is a Grey Warden, perhaps Bethany could assist us," Fenris suggested.

Hawke shook her head. "If we could find her. Last time I tried to write to my sister at Weisshaupt, the letter was returned. Wait! Doesn't Isabela know him . . . and you, Varric? Didn't you help him a few years back?"

"Yeah, but it's the same thing, Hawke. I'm just some guy. I'm not even Fereldan. And that job was all hushed up on account of the unkingly things we did. I don't think his secretary would just give me an appointment, if you know what I mean."

"Well, until we think of something better, that still may be our best bet." Hawke sighed. "Okay, so it's the beginnings of a plan. But I need to know first if each of you is really with me. I know it's a lot to ask." She glanced around at her friends, pointedly avoiding Anders.

"Of course, Hawke," Merrill chirped.

Varric shrugged. "I haven't got much better to do."

Fenris tilted his head to the side, looking thoughtful. "A laudable goal, Hawke. I will follow you."

Hawke finally looked over at Anders, who watched her with an inscrutable expression on his face. "This is suicide, Hawke," he said in quiet voice. She waited, seeming to hold her breath. "I'll stay for now. But I don't make any promises."

The tension flowed out of Hawke at his words, even though Anders really had just postponed his actual decision. She nodded. "Good."

"First and foremost, Hawke, we'll need some current information about the state of things, and there's not too much I can do out here in the middle of nowhere. I'm good, but I'm not that good," Varric said.

"Okay. To Denerim then. I think by ship from Gwaren, where we'll see what kind of intelligence you can scrounge up. " Hawke stood up and then with a curt nod, she smiled broadly. "Let's save the world."

Cullen didn't share Hawke's optimism about their chance for success and felt a twinge of guilt later that night as he wrote out another note for Cassandra by the light of the risen full moon.

_H. has agreed to intervene. We seek audience with King Alistair to convince him to host a parley. Perhaps to Denerim._

_C._

He waited anxiously for the ink to dry so he could secrete the message away for his next trip to the chantry in Gwaren.

His role in the mission was mostly complete now that Hawke had agreed to take it on. All that remained was to follow her to whatever end was in store for their fool's errand. Of course, this likely meant their deaths, but he had known that since the beginning. He immediately discarded the idea of abandoning Hawke to her fate and taking his chances that he could stay one step ahead of Cassandra and her minions.

An amused, curiously feminine voice in the back of his mind murmured, _Death wish or just nothing better to do?_

"Take your pick," he muttered back.

ooXXoo

_Gwaren  
Ferelden_

A shifting, patchy fog filled the seaside streets that led to Gwaren's Chantry, a common occurrence at the start of the summer months while the deep waters off Gwaren's shore continued to warm. The briny marine air overrode the city's stench but unfortunately also dulled Hawke's senses. The limited visibility and obscured alleyways created a vague sense of menace that gnawed on her nerves. The hulking presence of the armored knight at her side provided some comfort, but she couldn't help but glance uneasily over her shoulder from time to time.

Cullen's watchful eye had noted her restlessness, but thankfully he hadn't said anything yet, like, _I told you so_.

He had protested when she first had offered to accompany him to the Chantry in Varric's stead. The dwarf decided it was imprudent to return so soon to the scene of his one-armed man shenanigans, leaving only Hawke to go with the former templar. Cullen had immediately disagreed, citing concern about Hawke being recognized in a crowded city like Gwaren, but she had pointed out that the time for playing it safe was over if they were to get involved in the war.

Bold words now that she was trudging openly through the city. Her hand stole again to the hood of her cloak, tugging it down in an attempt to obscure her face a little better. At every intersection her eyes searched for any sign of threat, and of course, every person she saw looked mysterious and threatening in the hazy light. After a while she had to take a deep breath and force herself to stop being so paranoid. She was doing well until they neared the Chantry and its bell tolled the early morning hour.

The low gonging sound of the bell tower rang out, one toll, two. It called out its count across the city. Three, four. Ringing through each building and home. Five, six. Resonating through her body and settling deep in her chest. Seven, eight. Eight tolls . . . eight . . .

_The final reverberations of the bell bounced around the small stone room for a few moments more, rippling through the sweltering air. Like waves in the darkness, the echoes broke over her, suffocating her in fear and panic. Eight tolls. It was time._

_Her heartbeat quickened and soon, right on cue, footfalls sounded from down the hall, soft boots on hard flagstones. The smooth snap of a key in a well-oiled lock. Then the darkness lessened as the flicker of a torch entered, followed by the man in black. Always the nameless silver-eyed man in black. He steepled his hands before his expressionless face, the strange tattoos along his fingers catching the faint light. "Now. What shall we discuss today, Marian?"_

"Hawke!"

Strong arms wrapped around her as she hit something hard with a thud. She shook her head and blinked up into anxious amber eyes while being held steady within the circle of Cullen's arms. It seemed she had run headlong into his breastplate when he'd stopped in front of her. "Careful there, Grace. Are you all right? I couldn't get your attention."

She shook her head again to dispel the ringing in her ears—and the grim memories that had overtaken her—while Cullen slowly set her back on her feet. "Hawke?" he asked again, brow furrowed in concern.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine. Really. Just distracted I guess." She gave him a purposefully cheery smile, hoping he'd just drop it. "You can let me go now."

He colored and he stepped back from her so quickly she stumbled a little. Almost unconsciously, he reached out again to steady her. "Hawke, are you sure you're all right? You were white as a sheet a moment ago." His hand was gentle but firm where he held her just above her elbow.

She gave him an impudent grin. "Cullen, I didn't know you cared," she purred. Her automatic deflection of his concern worked almost too well, as his face closed off and he let her go almost roughly.

"If you're trying to escape notice, then you should pay better attention," he growled, his accustomed scowl settling back over his features. He strode off into the chantry building without her.

She sighed. _Nicely done, Hawke_. For a moment there, he had seemed truly concerned. It was a welcome change from the hateful glances and cold reserve he had shown her over the weeks since he'd joined them. His attitude did seem to be thawing overall as his ordeal faded into the past, and like today, she saw periodic flashes of the man she had known, the stern yet benevolent templar who had been her friend.

Honestly, she could understand his hatred and distrust of the world at large after what he'd gone through, so she had no problem forgiving his rough edges. From the little she'd seen of the many twisting scars on his naked torso during her appreciative observations around camp, she could only imagine how many more scars he bore on the inside.

In Kirkwall, he'd always been larger than life, tall, blond, and handsome, with that ridiculously shiny armor and that coolly self-confident smile. Now, seeing him bare of heraldry, his pale skin marred by jagged scars and pulled taut over lean muscles that didn't quite fit on his broad frame any more, he was much more human. Fallible and breakable. His impressive height now merely underscored how thin he still was, despite all the food with which she subtly plied him. She almost couldn't look in his eyes sometimes for the pain he still wore there.

At times she tried to see through his rough exterior to the old Cullen underneath, with mixed success. At a minimum, she wished she could shave off that horrible reddish beard to see the familiar chiseled planes of his face. But that would be too forward even for her. Then there was his hair.

That was still a surprise, that hair. She had to stop herself sometimes from reaching out to touch it, to feel those long unruly curls tangle on her fingertips. He'd always worn his hair so closely shorn she'd had no idea of the wild mane it would grow into, almost like a reflection of the man he'd grown into. Cullen the templar was so controlled and bottled up, but Cullen the renegade was brimming with bitterness and frequently boiling over. While it was a little frightening sometimes, she had to admit, it was also rather beguiling.

After another uneasy glance up and down the street before the Chantry, she followed him inside.

The cool interior of the cathedral instantly soothed her anxieties. The serenity radiating from the graceful statues of Andraste made her feel almost safe. The gentle murmuring of the worshipers filling the pews and milling around the dais in their devout duty was a balm to her senses after the uneasy suspicion she had turned on every passerby on the grimy streets. She sat down in the farthest row back and watched their devotions with distant fascination.

A movement to her left caught her eye. The tall figure of the former Knight-Captain stepped out from the confessional with a swish of its embroidered curtain. Unlike every other parishioner, who looked skyward toward the soaring vaults of the cathedral and the towering gaze of the giant figure of Andraste behind the dais, Cullen looked down at his feet, his forehead creased in sorrow. He shuffled down the aisle and toward the exit but started when he caught sight of her, like he'd forgotten she was there. He recovered quickly, straightening up and heading down the pew to sit beside her.

"Hawke."

She nodded at him affably. "Cullen." She shot several furtive glances at him but he still didn't say anything more. Finally, she asked, "What do you _do_ in there anyway?"

His eyes flew to hers, and he blushed deeply. "W-what do you mean?"

"In the confessional. You always seem more miserable after you come out than when you go in. Is that the point?"

His mouth opened and closed a few times before it snapped shut and a muscle jumped along his jaw. "Of course not," he said through gritted teeth.

"Well, then?"

He faced the dais at the front of the vast room, but his gaze was unfocused. "You confess your sins and ask for forgiveness," he said in a toneless voice.

"Ah, I see." She chuckled.

He glanced at her with a frown. "What do you see?"

"Well if it's all about guilt and sin, then of course you'll come out depressed."

"It's—" He shook his head. "No, Hawke, it's not like that at all. The purpose is to unburden yourself before the Maker, and in return you receive Andraste's grace. It's . . . cleansing for the soul." He turned to her and said in an earnest voice, "You should try it."

"Andraste's grace?" She arched an eyebrow at him skeptically. "Is that really what you got out of it just now?"

He flushed and looked down at his hands. "I . . . I admit, I have yet to feel it again. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't still try to seek forgiveness."

Seeing his bowed head, she was now even more intensely curious about this wooden box and its influence on him. She gave an inelegant snort. "What do you possibly have to be forgiven for, anyway?"

He looked at her sternly for a moment. "Confessions are private. Just between you and the Maker."

"Well, you, the Maker, and the faceless person on the other side."

"Only a holy initiate of the Chantry takes confession, Hawke," he said sternly.

"But you don't know that's who it is, since you don't actually see them, right? It could be anyone in there. What if someone just snuck in to listen? Honestly, it would be a simple thing to do . . ."

The panicked look on his face at her suggestion made her immediately backpedal. "Not that _I_ ever would do something like that! Of course!" She fell silent and then nodded, adopting an overly thoughtful expression. "No, no, you're right. I'm sure it's a perfectly secure way of sharing private information about yourself."

She glanced at him again and was relieved to see the humor in his eyes. "You have trust issues, don't you?" he murmured, cocking an eyebrow at her.

She chuckled. _Clever boy_. "So, you don't trust me, but you'll trust an invisible, allegedly all powerful deity who prides Himself on having turned away from humanity?"

"It's called faith, Hawke. You should get some."

"I have faith, Cullen. I have faith in what I can see. I have faith in my friends."

He looked down at her, his eyes solemn. "Faith is believing in something bigger. Something bigger than yourself." He turned his eyes forward again.

She did the same, eyes inevitably drawn to the giant figure of Andraste holding her eternal flame out in open hands. _Well, she certainly is bigger . . ._ A smile lifted the corners of Hawke's mouth, but she didn't repeat this out loud, assuming Cullen would not appreciate her jest. Instead she gave a dramatic sigh. "All right. Fine."

"What?" He eyed her suspiciously.

She rolled her eyes at him. "I'll try this confession thing. But, if the Maker strikes me dead, you're the one I'll blame." She poked an accusatory finger at his shoulder twice for good measure.

"That seems fair," he said in a grave voice that only quavered slightly.

She gave him a final look of only partially feigned trepidation. He gestured with the flip of one hand toward the confessional. So she stood up and made her way to the mysterious box.

She hovered outside for a moment to make sure it was empty before she slipped between the velvet curtains.

Once inside, the steady drone of the Chantry's faithful immediately fell away, leaving behind a hushed silence that felt oddly expectant and filled her with a sense of anticipation. She sat down on the hard wooden bench which was still warm from its previous occupant. She could see a faint outline of a figure behind the wooden screen, suddenly making her feel self-conscious.

She wasn't sure if she was supposed to say something first, so she nervously cleared her throat.

"The one who repents shall know true peace. Confess before the Maker and be absolved of your sin," came a muffled female voice.

Hawke froze and her bravado faded. _What was I thinking?_ _What am I supposed to say?_ She had no idea, so she just sat there. The sister also remained quiet.

"I-I don't know what to say," Hawke blurted at last, unable to handle the silence any longer.

"Every path begins with a first step, my child," said the kindly voice.

Hawke chuckled under her breath. "What if that first step is the wrong step?"

"Right or wrong, one cannot remain static. Life continues to move us forward, whether we like it or not."

Hawke frowned. "Even if you can't see where that path will take you? Maybe it's better to stay where you are. As you are."

"You never truly can know where your path will lead. The Maker created men with souls of endless possibility, unquenchable and searching. It is your destiny to confront the world, and in so doing, make it better."

For generic nonsense, the woman's words made a strange sort of sense. Especially for the former Champion of Kirkwall, the former shaker of worlds. "But what if, in so doing, I don't make it better. What if, no matter what I do, I can't make it right? For anyone." _Yet again._ She swallowed the lump in her throat and then bit her lip at this admission. It was something that had preyed on her mind ever since Kirkwall but that she had never really articulated until now. It was the real reason they had stuck to such small scale jobs, truth be told, to avoid so many lives and interests depending on them again. Depending on her again.

"Before you can do right by others, you must first do right by yourself. If you cannot forgive yourself, how can you extend that gift to others?"

A chill ran down Hawke's spine. _How could she know that?_ She gave herself a mental shake. _No._ Like any good charlatan, the priest only fed off the parishioner's words and commonly held fears. It was pure coincidence that she somehow played directly to Hawke's anxieties.

"I don't need or deserve forgiveness." Even to her own ears, her words sounded slightly petulant and false.

"Everyone deserves to be forgiven, child. Why else would you come?"

Hawke slumped back in surprise. "I . . . I don't know."

"Many are those who wander in Darkness, but she who has faith, the Light shall lead her safely."

"And if I don't have faith?" Hawke whispered.

"Blessed are the champions of the just. Look within yourself, and to those that follow you. Faith can come from unexpected quarters."

Yet again the woman made a strange sort of sense. Emphasis on the _strange_. Hawke peered through the screen but could see almost nothing of the faceless speaker who in turn seemed to see so much.

"Rest at the Maker's hand and be Forgiven. Andraste's grace be with you," the voice said formally, but with a note of finality.

Hawke fidgeted in the ensuing silence, unsure what to do next. "Hello?" she asked, but there was no reply. She peered through the screen again, but could no longer see even the outline of the sister. Had the woman left already? Hawke stuck her head out the curtain and saw the confessor's door standing ajar, the seat empty. Hawke stepped out of the box and looked around, but there were no priests she could see walking away from her location. She frowned, unsure how she could have missed at least hearing the woman leave.

With brow furrowed in puzzlement, she walked back over to Cullen where he sat waiting for her. "Well?" he asked.

She tapped her thumb against her lower lip thoughtfully. "Did you happen to see the sister who came out of the confessional?"

He sighed in exasperation. "Hawke, you're not supposed to know who is in there with you. It's all confidential. Stop being so suspicious."

"But I—" she started, but then gave up. "Nevermind," she grumbled. "Well, anyway, no Andraste's grace for me either, it seems." She shrugged and smiled at him impishly.

His expressive lips trembled and humor danced in his eyes. "Look on the bright side. At least you weren't struck by lightning."

With him looking down at her like that, her stomach did a little flip flop. This was more like the Cullen she had known in Kirkwall. The Cullen who was comfortable in his own skin and yet completely unaware of how handsome he was. _And still is . . ._

Putting aside her growing captivation with the man, she rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner. "If that's our new measure of success, then I think we're in for a rough time of it."

He gave a bark of laughter and his eyes crinkled up merrily. A nearby sister looked at him disapprovingly, hissing, "Shhh!"

She and Cullen shared an unrepentant grin and then fled the Chantry like a pair of errant schoolchildren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! Next chapter, we'll get a glimpse into how the Templar Order functions now that there are no Circles and see Cullen's reaction to the changes. _Chapter 7: The Purge_.


	7. The Purge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon leaving the Gwaren Chantry, Cullen runs into some old friends and discovers what wartime templars do now when they discover a mage.

It hit Cullen as soon as he stepped outside the Chantry, the feeling that something wasn't quite right. The morning sun had finally burned off the fog and shone down brightly on unusually quiet streets. The only people he saw were hurrying into the Chantry, looking fearfully over their shoulders or grasping their chantry amulets for comfort.

Hawke must have sensed it as well since the silly grin they had shared inside was gone, replaced with a tense wariness. In silent accord, they started toward their rendezvous point to meet the others, loosening their blades in their scabbards as they went. After several relatively empty blocks they saw a throng of people gathered in a shop-lined square.

Even as they neared the square, it was still unnaturally quiet. The people shifted nervously but did not speak above a whisper. Almost like the crowd was waiting for something. The windows surrounding them were plastered with people watching and even the shopkeepers had come outside to bear witness.

Hawke approached a serious-looking man in a flour-smeared apron, standing in front of a bakery and watching. She nodded her head toward the center of the mob. "What's happening, friend?" Hawke asked quietly.

"Templar Purge."

"Come again?" Cullen asked, certain he had misheard.

"Templar Purge. You know, the templars, they come through now regularly, looking for anyone aiding the mage resistance and purge any mages they find."

"But, what exactly do you mean by _purge_?" Cullen said with greater urgency, worried he already knew the answer.

"There're no Circles any more, mate. What do you expect they do now with the mages they find? They destroy them. All of them."

Cullen felt like he was going to be sick. This could not be what Andraste intended. _Maker have mercy on us all._ Without thinking he immediately started pushing through the crowd to its center. Only dimly did he notice that Hawke followed in his wake.

When at last he broke free he saw a squad of templar in full regalia standing in formation, precise rows of steel-clad knights gleaming righteously in the sunlight. His mouth went dry as he gaped at them and his heart beat with sudden longing. He was taken off guard by the piercing desire to join them, to be a part of something bigger, to fit within that perfectly ordered system. Andraste's champions, the Light to hold back the Darkness.

But the perfect scene was broken when the templar officer at their front stepped to the side to reveal the target of their attentions. An abject trio of farmers clinging to each other, but otherwise alone, in the center of a large clearing in the crowd. A young girl with straw-colored hair and enormous eyes, red from weeping, cowered within the circle of her mother's arms while an angry man, presumably the father, stood behind them with unsteady hands on his wife's shoulders.

The officer stepped closer to them and moved his helmet under one arm. The man's dark hair was matched with a dark, drooping mustache under piercing blue eyes. Cullen couldn't be sure from this angle, but he thought he recognized the man.

". . . and therefore, you are hereby charged with illegal acts of magic," the templar concluded in a voice that carried across the gathering. "If the girl surrenders peacefully, then you two need not share her fate. Maker have mercy on your souls."

The girl, who looked to be around ten years old, started crying again. Between hiccupping sobs, she said, "N-n-no. I'm n-not a mage. I'm not! P-please! Please don't kill me!"

Her mother appeared to be in shock, her eyes wide as she held her daughter and rocked slightly back and forth. In a dull voice she repeated a murmured litany of meaningless assurances. "It'll be all right. It'll be all right. Everything will be fine. It'll be all right." It was clear that she didn't believe these words any more than her daughter did.

"This isn't right!" the father shouted to no one in particular, eyes darting around at the onlookers nervously. "We've done nothing wrong! Nothing wrong!" The townsfolk returned his exclamations with watchful silence.

Before the templar officer could do anything, a booming voice sounded from the sea of people. "You shall not harm her!" When Hawke groaned Cullen guessed who it must be right as the blond mage emerged into the open.

With staff charged up and emitting tiny sparks of flame, Anders looked every inch the vengeful mage and harbinger of justice, even without the supposed spirit within him. He stopped next to the family and faced the dark-haired templar. "So your war is on children now?" Anders sneered.

"Child or adult, we protect the people from the constant threat of magic unchecked. As you well know, Anders." The templar smiled coldly. "So. Our prodigal son returns. How delightful that I get two for the price of one."

"In case you've forgotten, I'm a Grey Warden now. A bit beyond your jurisdiction, Reynolds."

The templar gave an ugly laugh. "After what you've done, Anders, even Andraste herself couldn't protect you now. With the size of the bounty on your head, the whole of Thedas has been searching for the Terrorist of Kirkwall. Aren't I the lucky one to find him?"

"Lucky isn't the word I would use." Anders raised his hand which started to glow a faint red as the magic boiled up.

At Cullen's elbow, Hawke growled deep in her throat. "Here we go," she muttered, drawing her blades and starting forward.

"Perhaps not," Cullen said quickly, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her back. He then strode in front of her and into the middle of the confrontation.

"Reynolds!" he called out to the lead templar.

Startled, the officer swung around to face Cullen and the collective gaze of the crowd followed with a gasp of surprise. Anders eyed him suspiciously, the threatening glow in the mage's hand holding steady. Reynolds's brow furrowed as he stared in disbelief at Cullen for the span of several uncomfortable seconds. "Cullen? Is it really you?"

Cullen approached and nodded. "'Tis."

Reynolds held out his hand and they noisily clasped armored forearms in greeting. "Maker's breath, man. I've heard all manner of stories about you the last few years. We'd heard Kirkwall mages murdered you or you'd gone insane and were off living with the Dalish." He gave a huff of laughter. "Someone even said you'd been convicted of treason. Wild tales."

"Nothing quite so interesting, I can assure you," Cullen said blithely. He risked a glance at Anders, trying with his eyes to warn him not to do anything stupid. Of course, the mage just glared at him. Cullen nodded to the red cloak attached at the templar's shoulders "So, Knight-Captain now?"

He smiled proudly. "Yes, the new Commander just appointed me."

"New Commander? What happened to Greagoir?"

Reynolds's eyes slid away. "Ah, well. Greagoir was, um, just . . . retired. His replacement is an Orlesian. Edmonde Moreau. Sent by the Lord Seeker himself, may he rest at the Maker's hand."

"What happened to the Lord Seeker?"

"Mmmm, yes. Bad tidings. Lord Seeker Lambert is missing and presumed dead. Blasted robes." Reynolds spit in the dirt in the general direction of Anders.

"Another boon for mage freedom," Anders sneered.

Before Reynolds could retort in kind and escalate the encounter, Cullen turned toward Anders. "That is quite enough from you, mage. After what happened in Kirkwall, you'll do well to keep your incendiary rhetoric to yourself!" Cullen snapped, hoping the man would heed his warning in light of the volatility of their situation.

Anders's eyes blazed in fury and his mouth clamped down into a thin line as he strove to control his reaction with considerable effort. Cullen continued to stare him down, but after a tense moment, Anders finally looked away.

Luckily, Reynolds only chuckled at this exchange, shaking his head. To Cullen he said, "Some things never change, am I right?"

"Indeed." Cullen casually perused the square while making a point of carefully recording every strategic detail. Reynolds stood at ease, hands far from his weapons like he expected no real challenges. The other templars stayed in formation instead of spreading out to secure the area, but he knew they would be ready to charge into battle in an instant. Three city guardsmen stood chatting together quietly along one of the thoroughfares leading away from the square, their relaxed attitudes indicating they felt the templars had the situation well in hand. A glance at the rooftops showed him no one yet had the advantage of the heights.

The family, their modest clothing and rough hands revealing their hard scrabble life, watched him with round eyes, obviously hoping for a miracle. Anders still hadn't let down his guard and eyed both Cullen and Reynolds with the same degree of distrust. Hawke remained at the edge of the crowd, trying to blend in as well as she could, but the subtle shifting of her weight clearly showed she was ready to spring into action.

Cullen looked back at Reynolds, schooling his expression into studied disinterest. "So, if I might ask, what goes on here? This doesn't seem to be standard protocol for bringing in a new mage."

Reynolds frowned. "We're, um, not bringing her in. As you must know, the Tower is just for important prisoners of war now. I'm afraid she's subject to the Purge."

" _Purge_? You mean . . . here? Now? Without any formal confirmation of her power?" Cullen was unable to mask the incredulity in his voice.

"We no longer have that luxury. Surely you must know that the stakes have changed, Cullen, even from whatever rock you've been hiding under. She's on the City Guard's list as one to watch, and we don't take any chances. Not any more."

At this, the girl piped up again. "N-no, it's not true!" Perhaps emboldened by Cullen's interference, she stepped out of her mother's embrace. "It's not. The cows . . . they was hit with the sickness. It's not my fault. I swear to you and to sweet, blessed Andraste." She looked around at the crowd, perhaps hoping for an ally or at least a sympathetic face. But the townsfolk merely look on in fear, afraid it might be true, afraid it might not be true, too afraid to speak up either way.

"Can't you see? It's not us!" her father declared again. His weathered skin flushed a deep red and his gaze darted nervously around, never focusing on one spot for long. "Not us I tell ya. The cows that died . . . That coulda been anyone. Anyone! You all look at us, but it coulda been any of you." He swept an accusatory finger across the gathered townsfolk.

Something in the man's voice caught Cullen's attention, something familiar in the heat of his protestations, the tremor in his voice. Looking more closely, Cullen could see the beads of sweat on the farmer's forehead and smell the bitter tang of his fear. Cullen started to inch forward, his instincts compelling him to start to draw in his power.

Reynolds only chuckled again and crossed his arms. "Enough, old man. No need to make things worse. Just step back from the girl—"

"No! I will not allow it!" the man shouted, his voice suddenly deepening and ringing with a strange menace. He took a threatening step toward the crowd, which let out a collective gasp and visibly backed away, already attuned to the fact that something wasn't right.

"Ralph, no!" his wife wailed, speaking up at last.

Cullen was already moving, drawing his sword and murmuring a prayer, when the man cried out in pain and doubled over. He convulsed several times and his skin seemed to undulate, like something was inside him and fighting to get out.

The wife screamed. "Ralph! Not like this! Holy Andraste deliver us!" She jumped forward and threw her arms around her daughter again.

Everyone else seemed frozen in place as they watched the scene unfold. Cullen was still a few steps away when the air around the farmer trembled and there was a loud report followed by the faint smell of ozone. A few paces beyond, the woman huddled together with her daughter and started muttering passages from the Chant of Light. ". . . though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm." These words unfortunately were no protection against the burst of energy that suddenly exploded from her husband, knocking everyone within a few yards to the ground.

Cullen regained his feet as the now grotesquely deformed abomination that had replaced the farmer advanced on the cowering mother and daughter. The demon laughed, a dry sound that seemed to echo off unseen walls, and its red eyes gleamed at the girl from the ruin of its formerly human face. "Your imminent punishment for his sins was finally too much for him to bear. Fortunately for me. Now taste your reward."

The girl screamed as it reached toward her. But, an instant later, Cullen had driven the creature to its knees with a burst of holy smite. The creature hissed and staggered back to its feet, and Cullen closed the distance in a few steps.

He caught the demon's taloned blows against his shield and drove his sword through its defenses, leaving a long shallow cut along its twisted ribcage. He quickly reached for his power anew, ready to channel righteous fire through his sword and into the creature, but this time he felt nothing respond.

In his shock he hesitated just a second too long. Long enough for the demon to brutally backhand him across the face with superhuman strength. He felt like his eye was going to explode and fire ripped across his forehead as he spun through the air and crashed face first into the ground.

Through the ringing in his ears he suddenly heard the chaotic sounds of fighting all around him. Spitting out grit, he got one knee under him before a leather gloved hand reached out and pulled him the rest of way up. Stumbling to his feet, he was greeted by amused green eyes.

"And, here I was worried you were going to keep all the fun to yourself," Hawke said with a fierce smile. She gave him a saucy wink and then spun away to confront a second demon that had burst from the ground nearby, wreathed in fire.

A quick assessment showed him that the rest of the square now was engaged in a pitched battle with three lesser demons and shades that had followed the first abomination into their world. Scattered among the frantically fleeing civilians were the templars using a combination of their lyrium-fueled abilities and martial might to drive back the creatures. Anders had moved away from the melee, presumably to avoid any stray templar skills draining his power, while he called down bursts of flame and ice on the nearest demons. To Cullen's left, Hawke was a blur of glinting blades as she easily evaded the rage demon's fiery grasp.

He heard another dry laugh behind him and spun to see the original abomination close on him again. It snarled, bloodied lips pulling back from blackened teeth. "Templar," it growled, finally recognizing its ancient foe.

"That's right, demon," he taunted, realizing that for once there was no need for correction. Regardless of titles or heraldry, he was a templar and he was this creature's doom.

"But you are weak for a templar," it mused, sounding puzzled.

In a burst of speed, Cullen slammed into it with his shield and then spun around, using his momentum to swing his sword in a deadly arc that scythed cleanly through the creature. As the demon's head dropped to the ground next to its body, Cullen muttered, "Not so weak, I think."

A strangled keening caught his attention but it took him a moment to locate the sound.

It was the wife who had just witnessed him destroying what was left of her husband. Her eyes were wild and she seemed almost beyond reason, her arms reaching out despondently toward the despoiled remains of the farmer. The daughter pulled uselessly on her arm, trying to pull her away from the surrounding melee.

He stepped closer to them and hesitated. Then, in a low urgent voice he said, "Run. Now. As fast as you can." While it appeared that the daughter was not in actuality a mage, there was no telling how Reynolds would treat them now, especially if he thought them complicit in hiding the father from the Circle.

The mother looked up at him blankly, but the daughter understood. "Ma! Ma! He's gone! We gotta go! Before we're next!"

Finally, the girl succeeded in pulling her mother to her feet. "Maker's blessing on you, ser," the girl said before they stumbled off through the chaos.

The few remaining creatures had been cornered near the bakery by the armored templars. Cullen moved to help, but then Hawke rushed past him and grabbed his arm almost without stopping.

"We're leaving," she said to Cullen. Anders followed in her wake, along with Varric, Merrill and Fenris, who must have been drawn by the sounds of battle from their nearby meeting point.

"But—"

"We're leaving," she repeated. "You've done enough." She sounded angry and Cullen wondered if it was at him.

ooXXoo

It was late afternoon before Hawke decided they were far enough from Gwaren to make camp. Cullen hadn't noticed any pursuit, but apparently she wasn't taking any chances. No one had spoken much along the way. The uncompromising set of Hawke's shoulders discouraged discussion as much as the grueling pace she set.

Everyone moved about their usual tasks to set up camp, subtly giving Hawke a wide berth. Finally, she stopped in front of Anders with her fists planted on her hips.

He ignored her for a moment, closing and setting aside his pack before looking up at her in polite expectation. Everything else stopped and the tension grew.

"What were you thinking to confront them directly? You almost got us all killed," Hawke said.

"Hawke, you wanted us involved in the war," Anders explained. "Well, welcome to the front lines. Mages are now truly enemies of the state. Every one. Even the children who just come into their power. Isn't this what you wanted? Us fighting the good fight to save the world?" His lip curled up a little, betraying the bitterness behind his measured arguments.

Hawke paused, and everyone held their breath. "I . . . Yes, that's technically true. I just thought we'd do it with a bit more subtlety. At the very least, ensuring that we make it to Denerim in one piece and still be able to do some good."

"To be fair, Hawke," Varric said, "subtlety has never been our strong point."

Merrill let out a bark of laughter, which she quickly turned into a cough. It succeeded in breaking the tension somewhat.

Hawke looked down quickly, but not before Cullen saw her lips twitch. When she looked back up at Anders she had composed herself again. "Nevertheless, that was reckless. I would think you, of all people, would be trying to keep us safe."

"No one can keep us safe now, Hawke. That's been my point all along." A wash of sadness passed over his face but he quickly looked over at Cullen, snapping, "How is it no one knows what happened to you?"

The sudden switch of the spotlight to Cullen caught him off guard. "I . . . I honestly don't know," he stammered. "The Seekers are a very secretive society. It seems their business is their own."

"If you're just a nobody now, I don't know how much use you can be."

"Perhaps we can actually use this to our advantage. For all anyone knows, he could be on any side now," Hawke mused.

"For all we know, either!" Anders said. "That encounter was a very near thing. He was a breath away from turning us in, too."

"Anders!" Hawke reprimanded.

Anders glared at Cullen. "You'll need to pick a side, Templar!"

"Can't you see that he already has?" she said. "What did you think he was doing back there, except saving your hide?"

Anders's face went still and cold. "You're defending _him_? Again? Unbelievable." He turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing into the dense wood.

Hawke ground her teeth in frustration, glanced at Cullen for a second, and then stormed off as well. Idly, Cullen noted that it was a different direction than that taken by Anders. With the drama abated, the rest of the companions seemed to come awake and move about the rest of their tasks.

Cullen grabbed the water skins and walked down to the stream. Midway through filling them he heard a quiet voice. "I don't think you were going to turn us in."

Merrill had appeared beside him, filling a cooking pan with water. The Dalish elf moved so quietly he hadn't heard even a whisper of her arrival. "I beg your pardon?" he said.

"I only said, I don't think you would have turned us in to those templars. I think you were trying to help."

The little elf almost never spoke to him, which he attributed to her innate fear of templars. Why she would talk to him now, he couldn't fathom, particularly since even he wasn't sure what his intentions had been with the templars.

The yearning to join them, to share in their blessed unity of purpose again, still trickled through him, like a slow poison tainting every thought and feeling. Why had he tried to derail their divine purpose? Why had he saved Anders? Why had he set the girl and her mother free?

If he had chosen a side, he wasn't quite sure which one.

"You weren't even there," he said dismissively.

"True. But, I do know that I'm not on my way to the Circle."

"Because templars no longer take mages to the Circle," he gritted. "Instead they kill them out of hand." Even the words were distasteful as he said them.

"See, exactly."

"What?" He looked up at her in exasperation, utterly perplexed.

She stopped filling her pot and looked at him patiently. "You wouldn't have turned us over to them, because you're not a monster."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because Hawke trusts you."

He rocked back on his heels, aghast at her simplistic reasoning. He had conned their leader into trusting him, and so they all did? Somehow that made him feel even worse.

Merrill stood to leave, holding the filled pot in both hands. "You know, Cullen, if you stop trying to make us hate you, you might be surprised to learn that we don't."

Once she had gone, he set aside the full water skins and sat down heavily on a downed log. All around him, the setting sun lengthened the shadows. Those cast by a nearby dead tree looked like spectral hands reaching across the intervening ground to drag him into the Void. He sighed. Perhaps that was the fate he had earned.

"Heavy thoughts for our hero of the hour," came a voice from behind him

A second later, Hawke plopped down next to him on the log. Her expression was unreadable, but if he had to guess, she was annoyed.

"Hardly a hero," he said sourly.

"I think that girl and her mother would say otherwise."

He clamped his mouth shut on his further protestations, unsure what he might accidentally say.

"As should Anders, not that he ever would," she added with a bitter twist of her lips. She was quiet for a moment and then ran the palms of her hands wearily over her face. "One minute, he wants to slink into obscurity, and the next, he's trying to go out in a blaze of glory. Again."

Cullen turned slightly to watch her out of the corner of his eye. She pulled her legs up, wrapping her arms around them, and rested her chin on her knees. Her eyes were lost in thought.

"Seems to me he might say the same thing about you," he said softly.

Her head snapped toward him. "That's different."

"Is it?"

She glared at him. "He is a hypocrite. For all his talk of trying to keep me safe, he finds the first opportunity to run into danger and place us all in jeopardy. It's as if . . . as if . . . he's punishing me for sparing his life after the explosion in Kirkwall." Her chin sunk down again on her knees.

Something about that didn't ring true for Cullen as he recalled the argument he'd overheard the other night. "Look, I don't know exactly what happened between you two that day, but perhaps you should consider the possibility that it's not Anders who is still punishing you for what happened. You seem to do quite a good job all on your own."

She turned to look at him again, denial writ across her face, and her mouth worked wordlessly to voice her outrage.

"Everything you do is motivated by guilt, Hawke. I've never met anyone who spends so much time looking after everyone else but herself. Even when I knew you in Kirkwall this was true, only now it's worse, since you seem to have taken the weight of the whole world on your shoulders, not just the concerns of one city." In the back of his mind, he wondered why he was saying this. It was exactly this guilt he needed to prey upon to keep her involved in the war effort.

Her mouth thinned to an angry line. "Who else will do it, if I don't?" she snapped at last.

"I don't know," he said simply. "But you need to look to your friends, trust them, rely on them, if you're going to drag them into this. And, in Anders's case, forgive him. Stop living in the past."

He braced himself for more arguments from her, but instead her shoulders slumped and she lowered her forehead to her knees, wrapping herself further into a ball. He had the sudden, terrifying urge to put his arm around her, so instead he crossed his arms, effectively pinning down his hands against his sides.

After a minute, she lifted her head. "You know, your charlatan confessor at the Chantry said something similar to me."

He took a breath to take her to task over her slur at the Chantry when she gave him a little smile and the little dimple distracted him. He released the breath explosively. "Well, charlatan or not, she was probably right." Their eyes met and they shared a genuine smile, easing the tension of the last few minutes.

Her eyes flicked to his forehead. "Um, were you aware that you're still covered in blood?"

He probed lightly with his fingers, which came away red and sticky, reminding him of the blow he'd taken from the demon. "Oh."

"Now personally, I think it makes you look rakish," she drawled, "but some might become faint at the sight of you. And not for the usual reasons."

He shook his head in amused exasperation, never sure what to expect from her any more. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gave his face a perfunctory swipe with it.

"Stop. You're just smearing it around," she scolded. "Give it to me." She soaked the handkerchief in the stream and then started to clean the wound more methodically. "Hmm, this is deeper than I thought." She stopped to rinse out the already blood-sodden cloth. "So, what happened back there with the demon? That was quite the face plant you performed."

"Is that the pot calling the kettle black?" he said sourly. "You weren't exactly the paragon of dexterity, Grace."

She scowled at him. "Didn't your mother ever teach you that name calling is rude? My name is not Grace. And, don't change the subject. Before the demon hit you, you seemed to freeze. What happened?"

It was hard to avoid her impertinent question when she held his face in her hands like that, mopping his brow in soothing strokes. "My templar abilities are not what they used to be. It merely caught me off guard," he mumbled.

She rinsed the handkerchief again and returned to her task, the tip of her tongue peeping out between her lips in concentration. "Do they still work without lyrium?"

Just hearing the word sent a shiver of craving through him, making his heart beat faster. He wet his lower lip. "Somewhat. But it seems they're also unpredictable, so I can no longer rely upon them." The thought depressed him. What was a templar without the ability to smite his enemies with righteous fire?

_Not a templar . . ._ whispered a quiet thought, echoing within the gaping hole in his chest, the emptiness that had once held his Maker-given power. He shut his eyes against the sting of regret.

"At least they still work!" she said in an overly cheery voice, cutting through his self-pity. "I thought they would stop altogether once you stopped taking lyrium."

"No. No, it's much more gradual than that. So I should still be of use to you for some time to come."

"Cullen, I don't know if you might be trolling for a compliment, but we need you because you're you, not because of your ability to smite evilness." She smiled. "Maybe you should take some of your own advice and give yourself a break."

She stood up and nodded her head toward camp. "Let's go back. I think we need to dig out one of those new bandages for your head, since somehow I doubt we can talk Anders into a healing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, as we learn more about how DA:I templars really function, this will all be AU. But it was interesting to imagine nonetheless. Next chapter, _Chapter 8: New Players_. Thanks for reading!


	8. New Players

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New players join the game while our companions come upon a plan for approaching King Alistair.

_Seeker Stronghold_  
Val Royeaux  
Orlais 

The remarkable acoustics in the ancient meeting hall meant that even the hushed whispers of the gathered conclave created a sea of sound that rippled through the room. The graduated tiers of stone benches circling the speaker's dais were completely filled tonight, and even the steps in the aisles had been claimed by latecomers craning for a view. The slate gray granite walls were shrouded by a series of somber tapestries depicting scenes from early in the Divine Age. In each, the devout, armed with their faith in Andraste and bathed in an unearthly light, fought back against a wave of foes shrouded in darkness and wielding unnatural powers.

A grizzled man in black armor stood on the dais. His sable beard was shot through with gray and his left eye was pulled into a perpetual squint by a crooked scar at his temple. The symbol he bore on his chest, a black eye against a white sunburst, was mirrored in the uniforms of all the assembled as well as in the ancient wooden staff in his hand. Said to be fashioned from wood saved from Andraste's actual pyre, the Staff of Conclave was almost black in color, except for the white sun and eye symbol crowning the staff. Otherwise, it was smooth and polished from the grip of generations of Seekers claiming the right to be heard in this room.

The man raised his voice to cut through the murmurs. "In conclusion, a weighty decision stands before us. Lord Seeker Lambert van Reeves was revolutionary. He set us upon a new path, a path that diverges from the Chantry's for the first time in eight hundred years. That path creates opportunities, but also challenges. I believe that I am the man to lead the Seekers and face these challenges. I look forward to your support." He nodded his head respectfully at the group, who applauded politely, and then he handed the ancient staff back to an equally ancient-looking man with a long white beard and wearing stiff, formal robes of black velvet emblazoned with the black all-seeing eye.

The robed man thudded the staff against the floor. "So you have Lord Rochester's bid for the position of Lord Seeker." He thudded the staff again and the sound reverberated off the walls, effectively silencing the crowd as they waited in anticipation for the final speaker. "Now I give you Colin Marchand."

The crowd in the aisle respectively parted for the young man who strode forward to claim the staff. He took it from the old man, nodded at him, and then turned to face the group. Also dressed in the black armor of a Seeker, Colin Marchand was nevertheless light incarnate. His shoulder-length golden hair seemed to catch the faint light from the hall and his bare, handsome face shone with optimism and enthusiasm. His bright blue eyes moved over the crowd, trying to single out each listener who in turn almost involuntarily leaned forward to catch his words. He smiled, and they listened more intently.

"First, I thank the Conclave Speaker for recognizing my bid to speak." He nodded again at the wizened man in the robes. "I also thank Lord Rochester for his cautionary words about the challenges we face as an organization. I, however, would like to focus on the opportunities ahead. Lord Seeker Lambert was not only revolutionary, he was visionary. I believe he saw a future where the Seekers of Truth and our brethren, the Templar Order, become one again and forge a new path of justice for Thedas."

He moved around the floor targeting another quadrant of the room with his attention. "Early in the Divine Age, the Nevarran Accord was struck, joining us with the Chantry and creating the Circle system. We have grown considerably since that time, becoming the Chantry's secret enforcers, adjudicators, and hunters. But too long have we stood in the shadows. A mystery, feared and misunderstood by Thedas, we are their silent guardians. I believe now is our time to step into the light."

He paused for a moment when a flurry of whispers swept across the floor. He stood, waiting patiently until the murmurs died down.

"Now, diverging from the Chantry does not diminish our divine mandate. _We_ are the champions of the just. _We_ are the lights in the shadow. It has ever been our mandate, since the days when we stood on our own and were better known as the Inquisition. I see our destiny to reclaim that birthright. To take our rightful place as the Champions of Thedas, the protectors of the people, their shield against the darkness."

He paced a few steps. "Subversive elements are threatening to bring back the dark times and the tyranny of magic. The unfortunate events in Kirk—"

He stopped for a moment, lifting his chin and blinking once, twice, three times in succession, his mobile features suddenly becoming still as he struggled to marshal his emotions. He cleared his throat, but his eyes remained overly bright. "The unfortunate events in Kirkwall are but a symptom. Now you all know me, you know what I lost there that day, three years ago." He paused again, taking a deep breath. "I'll not dwell on my personal tragedy except to say that my dear mentor Elthina, may she rest at the Maker's hand, and my slain brothers and sisters, call us to action. To step up to the challenges and overcome them." His eyes hardened and his voice deepened as he declared, "And we shall answer. We are the Seekers of Truth."

The crowd burst into loud applause which were almost deafening as they bounced and echoed around the hall. Colin looked around the room, again seeming to individually catch every eye, and nodded his thanks. After a lengthy minute, he raised his hand and the room quieted on command. "Thank you for your attention. For those of you that share my optimism and vision for the future, I humbly request your support." The applause broke out again while he handed the staff back to the Speaker. The old man thudded the staff on the ground, trying to restore order, but the cheering continued unabated.

Colin smiled warmly at the crowd and raised his hands in thanks before leaving the dais. Once through the crowded aisle, he headed straight to the darkened corner where his assistant, Lowell, stood waiting.

As usual, no one had spared a glance for the slight, serious-looking man in the corner, focused as they were upon the charm and spectacle that was Colin Marchand. Lowell, with his pale blue eyes and flat straw-colored hair that hung limply around his face, had always felt like a wan reflection of Colin's brilliance. He was no more than a shadow, and that was how he preferred it. Blending in with the background was an art Lowell needed for performing his master's work.

Seeing Colin approach him, Lowell squared his shoulders and stood up straight. No matter how many times he heard his master speak, it always moved him. And, like every other time, Lowell held himself in check instead of joining in with the applause. Colin subtly jerked his head toward the narrow stone doorway leading off the main meeting chamber and then proceeded without pausing into the small, hexagonal antechamber.

Away from the crowd, Colin's expressive face stilled and his blue eyes became hooded and calculating.

"That was perfect, ser," Lowell offered, trying not to gush.

Colin snorted. "They're cattle. It was only a matter of time before they vote me in as new Lord Seeker. Rochester hasn't a chance."

"Will you stay for the vote?"

"There's no need. Now, what news?"

"Ser, there's been a sighting."

Colin's eyes lit up. "At last. Tell me."

"In Ferelden, ser. The templars report engaging him in Gwaren."

"But they failed to intercept him, I presume?"

Lowell tried not to flinch at his master's frosty tone, reminding himself that it wasn't his failure. "Apparently he's still under the protection of the Champion."

"Still with the Champion, is he?" Colin steepled his hands together before his lips which sensuously curved into a cold smile. "Good. Dispatch a team to Gwaren immediately to pick up the trail."

"Yes, ser," he said and moved to leave.

"Lowell."

The man stopped and turned. "Ser?"

"Send an agent as well."

Lowell hesitated and swallowed visibly. "Y-yes, ser."

ooXXoo

_Outskirts of Gwaren  
Ferelden_

When Cullen and Hawke walked back into camp, they were immediately accosted by Merrill, who bounced over to them in excitement. "Oh, Hawke, can we go? Oh please, say we can go! Please, please, please?"

"What? Go where?" Hawke looked around in puzzlement, noting that Anders also had returned but sat far from the cooking fire and their friends.

"Varric says there's going to be a fancy ball in Denerim. Oh please say we can go! I've always wanted to go to a ball!"

Hawke laughed uncertainly. "I'm not sure our busy social calendar has room for yet another party, Merrill."

"But the King will be there!" Merrill said.

Hawke's eyes snapped to Varric, who sat stirring Merrill's soup. "That so?" she asked evenly.

"It is," he replied. "While you and Templar were making nice with his friends back in Gwaren, we learned that Ferelden rejoices in the birth of its heir apparent."

"The Queen has given birth?" Hawke said in some surprise. They'd heard a rumor that she was with child but had dismissed it since everyone knew that the King's status as a Grey Warden made his chances of conceiving an heir slim. "This is news indeed."

"And an opportunity. Much easier to crash a party than sneak into the throne room." Varric's grin was smug.

"So says the merchant who was banned from the Viscount's assemblies for bringing uninvited guests," rumbled Fenris.

"That was just the one time," Varric said in a wounded voice. "Regardless, the problem wasn't the getting in."

"Varric, was that the time you brought Isabela with you?" Merrill asked.

"Yes, I'm afraid so, Daisy. The Kirkwall aristocracy just never understood the Rivaini."

"Well, now you can take me!" She clapped her hands. "I promise I won't proposition the King or flash anyone on a wager!"

At Hawke's side, Cullen scowled in disapproval. "Um, getting back to the point!" Hawke said quickly, settling on a rock near the fire. "Is this a realistic option? Everyone in Thedas must be trying to get an invitation."

"Right. Which means _everyone_ who's _anyone_ will be there." Varric spread his hands and raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

"Didn't we recently determine that we're nobodies now and that everyone we know of importance is dead?" she asked.

"Not quite everyone . . ." Varric said, glancing sidelong at Anders.

There was a pregnant pause as realization dawned for Hawke. "Oh."

"Hawke, no," Anders said in a low voice from where he sat at the edge of the group.

"Of course, we don't actually know if he'll be there," Varric added, still focused on the soup he methodically stirred.

"Or if he would even help us at this point," Fenris said, eyes flicking to Anders as well.

Hawke chewed her lip pensively. "It could work. I'd like to think that he'd still help us. For a good cause."

"Who are you talking about?" Cullen asked, his tone sounded slightly annoyed.

Hawke sighed. "Sebastian."

"Who?"

Hawke rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Sorry. Um. Sebastian Vael. Prince of Starkhaven, former close friend to the Champion of Kirkwall, and avowed mortal enemy of Anders. And, perhaps of anyone who happens to travel with him, as well."

"No, Hawke. Absolutely not!" said Anders.

"But, it would be the perfect plan," Hawke replied while avoiding looking directly at the mage. "As Prince, Sebastian certainly will attend and he could easily hide us among his entourage."

"Why are you so certain he would be there?" Cullen asked her.

"Starkhaven and Ferelden are close allies after King Alistair supported Sebastian's effort to take back his throne. Knowing Sebastian, he'll be there."

"It's hardly a perfect plan!" Anders continued, ignoring Cullen's interruption. "Am I the only one who recalls that Sebastian was ready to raze the entire city of Kirkwall just to kill me?"

"Well, I doubt Choir Boy really would have marched on Kirkwall," Varric said in an eminently reasonable voice. "After all, we weren't even there any more."

"And you're willing to take the chance that time has mellowed his conviction? Sebastian Vael? The man who spent the better part of six years plotting to retake his throne and his retribution on those who'd stolen it?"

"Well, maybe not the perfect plan," Hawke admitted, "but it may be the best we've got."

Anders shook his head and said softly, "Hawke, either you want us to play it safe, or not. If I walk into the same room as Sebastian, I can guarantee you that the result will not be subtle."

She chewed her lip again, trying to imagine that scene, Anders in a room with Sebastian and the ensuing fireworks. For years she'd tried to convince Anders to feel some regret for the grief he'd caused Sebastian, but Anders refused to think of the individuals caught up in his web of conspiracies, almost as if he couldn't allow himself to do so. It had been the initial source of their conflict and the beginning of the end of their relationship. "No, you're right. It's a foolish plan. We'll find another way."

"Oh well. I even would have worn shoes," Merrill said in a wistful voice.

"We can still find another way into the ball, Daisy," said Varric. "There's always a way, and Choir Boy doesn't even have to know we're there."

Hawke only listened with half an ear as her friends proceeded to toss around other ideas for gaining access to the ball, eventually turning to the absurd, with one suggestion more implausible than the next, until they were debating the advantages of swooping in on griffons versus dragons. Standing just behind Hawke's shoulder, Cullen remained silent. His stolid presence at her back was a comfort, especially given the reproachful scrutiny she felt prickling across her skin. Looking up at last, she met Anders's cold, distant eyes from across the camp and it was as if he looked at her from across the chasm that had grown between them.

It was so hard to remember the happier times any more, when his fire and passion had fueled their relationship instead of having torn it apart. When she'd been so in love that his talk of drowning the world in blood to keep her safe had been a romantic abstraction instead of a disturbing reality. But everything had changed the night the Chantry exploded, even if she hadn't known it at the time.

Fleeing Kirkwall hand in hand, steeped in blood and high on their righteous triumph over Meredith, she and Anders had embarked on a grand adventure to right the world's wrongs. But, in the cold light of day, the adventure had soon lost its luster. The templars were in hot pursuit, transforming the adventure into a pedestrian struggle for survival focused only on staying one step ahead. Plus, doubt and remorse had set in for Hawke as she came to terms with the fact that she was an unwitting accomplice to Anders's crime and had earned her status as a hunted fugitive as well. Meanwhile, Anders disdained such introspection, clinging to his idealism like a shield and turning a blind eye to any consequences.

It hadn't helped that she had been right and things had quickly gotten worse instead of better. Although the Circles had risen up as Anders had intended, the Chantry response had been swift and ruthless, locking down the Circles even more tightly and turning the gilded cages into prisons in truth. When the recriminations started to color the lovers' every conversation, they spoke less and less, until finally one night they both stopped trying.

It had been a night like any other, clear and cold from the approach of winter, about two months after their escape from Kirkwall. They were camping in the Vimmark foothills, just east of Cumberland. Like most nights, she and Anders had begun to quarrel over something incidental that quickly became a proxy for their deeper troubles. Their friends had thankfully slipped away from camp until it was just the two of them, each slinging loud, hurtful accusations steeped in self-righteousness. Besides the pain and futility, the only other thing she really remembered of the argument was the outcome.

"I am done with this. I'm going to bed," she had announced furiously, turning toward their tent. She paused for a moment, out of habit, and waited for him to follow.

"Forgive me if I don't follow your command, fearless leader!" he sneered. "I'll not be coming just yet."

Angry and mortified, she hissed, "Then don't bother!"

She had lain awake for hours, alone in that small tent, waiting for him to overcome his pride and slink back to her, while she stewed and invented better arguments for the next fight. But he never came. The next morning she emerged ready to accept his apology and maybe make a concession or two of her own. But he wasn't curled up next to the fire as she had expected, smiling that muzzy grin with which he normally greeted her in the mornings. Nor was he anywhere to be found in her frantic search of the camp environs. When he hadn't returned by midday, her friends finally convinced her that it was too dangerous to linger in one spot any longer. Only then did she accept that Anders had left her.

"And how long is that?"

Hawke started when Cullen suddenly spoke up from behind her, bringing her back to the present, and it took her a moment to recognize that he was responding to someone else, joining into their harebrained ball discussion at last.

"The celebration will take place in about a month's time," Varric answered. "So if we need to do any ground work to find our entrance, we'll have to move quickly and get into town early. Particularly as Denerim starts to fill up with dignitaries and hangers on."

"Taking ship from Gwaren might be risky now after our templar run in," Fenris said. "Perhaps we should purchase horses from one of the outlying farms and go inland through the Brecilian Passage."

"The overland route will cut it a bit close," Cullen said. "I think we could still find passage discreetly in a large port town like Gwaren. Once we're underway, sailing to Denerim would be the safest and swiftest course of action."

"What do you think, Hawke? Should we still sail to Denerim to give ourselves more time?" Varric asked, deftly pulling her back into the discussion with a sidelong glance.

She nodded. "That's probably a risk we can take. Especially since time isn't on our side."

Varric chuckled. "Nothing ever is."

ooXXoo

_Gwaren  
Ferelden_

Cullen frowned down at the cards in his hand, trying to remember everything that Fenris had patiently explained about Diamondback, and he was surprised to realize that he had a good hand for once. Although outwardly blasé, Varric was shrewdly watching him out of the corner of his eye, wary in spite of Cullen's newness to the game. Sitting across from them, Merrill, Hawke and Anders tried to keep their cards private while squeezing in together on one of the crumpled beds. The group barely fit around the tiny wooden table in the rented room Cullen shared with Fenris.

Varric had been able to book them passage to Denerim relatively easily although they had had to wait several days before they could set sail. Hawke had insisted that they keep a low profile on returning to Gwaren, just in case, so they stayed holed up in the rooms they'd let at the low-end inn near the wharf, slowly going stir crazy.

The ensuing silence and boredom had finally been too much for Fenris when paired with the even more taciturn Cullen, and so the elf had started to teach him Diamondback as a way to pass the time. Naturally, on learning of this, Varric had been offended at not being invited. So after dinner that first night, there had been one tentative knock at their door after another. The last to join them had been Anders, looking somehow sheepish and surly at the same time.

Truth be told, Cullen was glad of the company. He was relieved that no one had questioned his motives for pushing for the swifter mode of transportation to Denerim. But then, they probably all had their own reasons for wanting to avoid any delays and complete their mission.

To Cullen's dismay, the addition of new players, particularly Varric, also brought higher stakes. Cullen and Fenris had been betting with random odds and ends, buttons, candle stubs, what have you, just as a way of keeping score, but after the first night, Varric casually had pointed out that coin was also a way of keeping score. Three days later, on their last night in Gwaren, Cullen was poorer but finally starting to get the hang of it.

"Place your bet, Templar," Varric prompted. Merrill and Fenris had already folded, and it seemed that Anders should have as well if his dissatisfied glaring at his cards was any indication.

Cullen hesitated and then dropped his coins on the table. Varric stroked his chin speculatively at Cullen's rather conservative bet. Cullen wasn't being cheap so much as trying not to give away the strength of his hand with a large bet. Not that the money really mattered in any case. Since Cullen was without an independent source of income, anything in his purse had originally been Varric's or Hawke's anyway.

"I said to stop looking at my cards, Hawke!" Anders complained, leaning away from her again and holding his cards up against his chest.

"Oh believe me, Anders, there's _nothing_ to see," she said in a dry voice, joining Merrill in a chuckle at Anders's expense.

"My strategy is merely too sublime for you to grasp."

"Must be too sublime for your purse to grasp as well," Hawke shot back with a wink. She leaned towards him in an even more obvious attempt to peek at his cards, and he batted her away, breaking into a reluctant grin.

Cullen was continually baffled by the former couple's dynamic. Since their blow up at camp about this Sebastian Vael character, Hawke and Anders each seemed to be making a concerted effort to be nice to each other. Their easy playfulness, however short lived it might prove to be, spoke volumes of the depth of their connection. Of course, their temporary truce was good for the group, but it bothered Cullen for some reason he couldn't quite put his finger on. He watched them for a moment longer, noticing how Anders's eyes lingered on Hawke when she turned back to the table.

She pursed her lips, and after a series of darting glances between her cards and the pot of money, she sighed. "Too rich for me." She folded up her cards and set them on the table.

Anders also sighed in a noisy exhalation of breath. "Fine. I fold, too."

"So, what'll it be, Templar?" Varric asked, a smile playing at the corners of his lips in anticipation of his win.

"I suppose I will call," Cullen replied uncertainly.

Varric grinned and lay down his cards, but his smile slowly faded when he saw Cullen's superior hand.

Merrill clapped her hands in delight. "Ah, well done, Cullen!"

Anders just glared at him.

"Andraste's flaming tits, there's no way you just learned this game!" Varric swore, glancing suspiciously at Fenris.

Fenris held up his hands. "I cannot be held responsible." He looked over at Cullen. "My lessons, however, are now at an end."

Varric narrowed his eyes at Cullen. "For a slavishly law-abiding citizen, you are much better at bluffing than I would have given you credit for."

A frisson of fear flashed through Cullen and he hoped he hadn't just raised the dwarf's suspicions, but then Hawke laughed merrily. "Ah, Varric, don't be a sore loser. Be glad that our games will start to get more interesting for you now." Her laughing eyes met Cullen's and he smiled back, suddenly proud.

The next morning, however, the easy sense of camaraderie Cullen had felt was gone, replaced by a vague unease he couldn't shake. The brightening sky was still tinged a faint pink as Hawke's group made their way toward the fishing schooner that would take them to Denerim. Except for a distant sailor stumbling back to his ship, the dock front was unoccupied. The quiet lap of water could be heard, punctuated by the creak of swaying sails and moorings and a lone seagull's cry. There was nothing unusual in the early morning lull, which was why Cullen couldn't understand why he was on edge.

So far the walk from the inn had been uneventful. In fact, everyone else seemed relatively relaxed, as if the days they'd spent idling, sleeping in real beds and eating fully cooked meals, had recharged them mentally and physically. There was a new bounce in Merrill's step and Fenris seemed more light-hearted than normal, chuckling at Hawke and Varric's banter and chiming in from time to time. Even Anders was smiling.

Cullen anxiously scanned the area, but except for their group, it was deserted. A thin mist lingered along their path, chasing around the bobbing prows that melted in and out of focus. The group started down the long wooden pier that would lead them to their ship and the mist thickened. The temperature dropped and the light wavered as the wan morning sun struggled to reach them. Along the way, the sputtering oil lamps turned into disembodied orange halos of light.

Hawke and Varric laughed again at Anders who grumbled gamely. The companions had been teasing the mage mercilessly about his lack of skill at Diamondback. "Just don't let Broody here give you any lessons," the dwarf was saying to Anders. "I don't need anyone else fleecing me." Varric glanced sourly at Cullen.

"I take neither credit nor blame," Fenris said. "I can only lead a horse to water, I cannot make it drink. Just as I cannot stop a certain dwarf from underestimating said horse and thereby losing his money."

Hawke laughed delightedly. "So, am I to understand that Cullen is a horse in this scenario?" She looked over at Cullen to include him in the joke, and he gave her a quick, distracted smile. "Well, you're a horse I would bet on," she said to him.

His heart lurched in a peculiar way and it was a moment before he realized that it wasn't because Hawke was smiling at him. An odd sensation brushed faintly against his senses, that was somehow familiar and yet unsettling, like cold, intimate fingertips teasing down his spine. His eyes darted around, seeing nothing amiss while his instincts screamed at him that something was distinctly wrong.

"What is it?" Hawke asked, finally noticing his distraction.

"Nothing." He slowed his pace, trying to hide his concern while he searched for the source of his unease.

"Cullen, what is it?" Hawke repeated in a tense voice. The others instantly responded to the concern in her tone, quieting as well.

"It's probably nothing."

Hawke slowly drew her blades, the metallic ring sounding muted in the stillness. The others followed suit, readying their weapons. When Cullen frowned in puzzlement, she shrugged. "Acting on such feelings is what has kept us alive this long." They crept along, moving steadily toward the end of the dock where their ship waited.

Suddenly Anders swore softly. "Not again." He immediately started murmuring an incantation, drawing a crackle of electricity to his fingertips out of thin air, as several dark figures emerged from the mist before them.

"Flames," Hawke spat.

"It was just a matter of time," said Varric, cocking Bianca and taking aim. The wraith-like figures took shape as they drew near, revealing themselves to be armed men dressed in pitch black leathers. Their faces were all hooded and cowled, making them featureless and identical, as if the dark leather was a uniform but without any kind of heraldry indicating their allegiance. They moved on silent feet toward the companions and effectively cut off their path to the ship. Surrounded by the harbor waters on two sides, there was no outlet from the pier other than back the way they had come. It seemed these men had been expecting them.

Cullen drew his sword and dropped into a defensive stance at the front of the group. "Friends of yours?"

Hawke gritted her teeth. "You could say that." Then she couldn't say more as the dark assailants charged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, the notion to Cullen getting inducted into the Fenris Diamondback game was just too delicious not to imagine! :) Next chapter, _Chapter 9: Change of Plans_ , our heroes have to divert their plans for getting to Denerim in time for the ball, and we'll learn a bit more about what Hawke's been running from.


	9. Change of Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An encounter with mysterious assassins force our heroes to flee Gwaren in a hurry, and stirs up bad memories for Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus! I'm afraid I've been buried in playing DA:I, but I think of it as research for just how AU this story is now. :) But never fear, I love it too much to abandon it. So onwards!

Almost a dozen armed and hooded men ran at them from the far end of the pier. Varric let loose a blur of quarrels, taking out at least one attacker before the first few were crossing swords with Fenris and Cullen. Hawke slipped in from the side, doing her best to flank the men before they noticed her. While Fenris distracted one with his enormous broadsword, she hamstrung the assailant from behind. She didn't have time to catch her breath, though, as two more swordsmen immediately took his place. She twisted away from a long sword that almost caught her shoulder and barely deflected the second man's thrust at her thigh. Undeterred, they pressed forward, the longer reach of their swords forcing her smaller blades to move twice as fast.

Like every time before, there was no loud gloating or enjoyment from these silent warriors, only discipline and focus in their eyes. They both swung at Hawke, their blows working in concert, precise and methodical, until one sword sliced across her bicep. She hissed in pain but barely slowed down. She caught the man's next blow with both her daggers, pulling him off balance, and then spun in under his guard to bury one dagger up through his throat. The additional second it took for her to pull her blade free, however, meant that she had left herself open to the second man, who raised his sword high above his head for a powerful downswing that would cleave her in half.

She twisted awkwardly, falling to one knee in her effort to avoid the brunt of the blow, but it didn't come. Instead, the descending sword rang loudly off the shield that suddenly deflected the blade to bite uselessly into the wooden pier. With his shield arm still holding steady, Cullen followed with a quick counterstrike that disabled the man. Hawke scrambled back to her feet, ignoring the chivalrous hand Cullen extended. She threw him an embarrassed smile and dashed off to back up Fenris, who was now facing a growing circle of armed men who stood just beyond the reach of his giant two-hander.

As Hawke ran up, two of the hooded men fell, writhing and struggling in a cloud of crackling, magical lightning. She vaulted over them and into the ring with Fenris, hoping Anders's magic would last long enough for them to thin out the rest before the fallen men recovered. One of the few things they knew about their assailants was that they seemed to have an unusual tolerance to magic. More joined the fight against them while Hawke spun and parried back to back with Fenris. She peered through the mist toward the end of the pier, hoping their ship would wait for them, but she couldn't see anyone on deck.

"We have to get to that ship," she said to Fenris while ducking away from another whistling blade.

"Agreed," he grunted, pushing back against the heavy blow that rang against his sword.

"Merrill!" she shouted. "Make us a path!"

The mist shuddered as a swell of air bubbled up, causing small eddies to dissolve into clear patches. The wind grew, murmuring with the susurrus of Merrill's powerful invocation to the elements. The gust swept straight down the center of the pier as it strengthened. The hooded warriors were blown back, stumbling, and some even fell into the water.

"Come on!" Hawke yelled, propelling herself forward. The companions sprinted down the pier, along the calm center of the buffeting winds, toward their waiting ship. Once everyone else had made it across the gangplank onto the deck, Hawke followed, only to stop cold in her tracks.

Lying near the wheel, in a pool of his own blood, was the captain. Beyond him, scattered across the deck, the crew had met a similar fate. Belatedly she realized that a crew preparing to set sail should not have been so quiet.

She could only stare at the carnage as an unexpected chill made her shiver. _We will not be sailing to Denerim today_.

"How could this happen? How could they know we would be here?" Merrill asked, wide-eyed.

"It was inevitable that they would find us again. Nowhere is safe," Anders said grimly, not even bothering to gloat.

"Okay," Hawke started, thinking fast. The hooded men were recovered from the wind storm and advancing. Situated at the end of the long pier as they were, there was no escape. "The pier is narrow. I think we can hold them if we're smart. Fenris, Cullen, with me. Varric, Anders, Merrill, keep them off of us as best you can." She ran back across the gangplank and took a deep breath, hearing her pulse beat loudly in her ears.

The battle narrowed to just the foe in front of her, his descending blade seeming to move inexorably slow, like she watched it from a distance. She reached up to block it, every motion measured, the clang of blade on blade faint and remote. With a deliberate turn of her wrist, she deflected a second strike but it glanced off her dagger and across her forearm in a shallow slice. She watched with detachment the blood slowly blooming.

Then the full cacophony of sound resumed as the battle roared back to life and she was spinning and tumbling as quickly as she could go. Along her every line of sight, there was a dark foe, but she focused on those in her immediate vicinity, on holding their position. Luckily the narrow breadth of the pier, along with an opportunely-placed tumble of boxes and tackle, created a bottleneck so only a few of their enemies could approach at once.

The wind picked up again but this time it was accompanied by the crackle of arcane lightning from the storm Anders called down on the hooded men beyond the bottleneck. The air became charged and the first strike hit with a deafening crack into the middle of the group before them, followed by sizzling and a choking cry of pain. Several more lightning strikes rained down at random, one striking the water with a hiss of steam and another hitting the mast of a nearby ship. The mast splintered and fell, crashing down across the water toward them. The falling mast barely missing Hawke who had to jump out of its way as it hit the wooden surface of their pier.

Despite the danger, the dark warriors never broke rank or lost their discipline. Instead they continued to press forward with their coordinated attacks. Fenris and Cullen drew the brunt of it, and each bore a series of minor wounds in evidence. Varric had move up closer, harrying their assailants with a deadly rain of bolts while holding off the odd swordsman who came too close to the butt of his crossbow. But they were all tiring.

Hawke glanced behind them at Anders and Merrill, who were muttering a string of incantations. Anders was sweating profusely while he worked on maintaining the lightning storm. Hawke turned back to the melee but heard Anders gasp. She spun around to see his face go white and his lips stumble over the words. The hair on her arm stood on end just as the lightning dispersed in a loud report and Anders dropped to his knees.

"Anders!" she cried, running to his side.

"We . . . we have to get out of here," he gasped, breathing heavily through dangerously pale lips. "My mana is gone."

"Templars?"

"N-no. S-something worse." He gulped. "We have to get out of here."

Hawke looked at Merrill in time to see her sway on her feet. "What? What?" Merrill cried, her head swinging from side to side like she was looking for the source of some threat. "No!" Then she cried out in pain, flinching away from some unseen blow.

"Anders," Hawke said, "grab Merrill. Follow me." She ran toward Cullen, who was simultaneously blocking the blows of one man with his shield while parrying the sword of another. She kicked out the knee of the nearest one before the man knew she was there, and then followed with a swift kick to his head, knocking him out cold. With Cullen's sword arm freed, he switched into offensive mode and surprised his other attacker by running him through.

"Cullen, I need a distraction," she said to him. "Anything that slows them down for a moment."

He nodded once. "As you wish." Eyes closed, he murmured a prayer and pointed his sword toward their remaining adversaries. When the prayer ended, he opened his eyes and the fighters before them reeled back from the unseen force that drove them to their knees.

Wasting no time, Hawke ran over to where the broken ship mast had fallen onto the pier. She motioned to Anders who had his arm wrapped tightly around Merrill. "Across to the other ship! Now!" Still pale, Anders gripped Merrill's hand and quickly led her out onto the thick mast, balancing his way carefully over to the damaged ship. "Varric!" she called. "Fenris!" They each followed the others across the fallen mast, while Cullen held off the first of hooded men who had recovered from his smite.

"Hawke, go!" Cullen yelled over his shoulder.

"No, you go!"

"Bu—"

"Don't argue with me!" she shouted, glaring at him. He frowned but complied, leaving her to dodge multiple attacks while he lumbered his way across. She ducked under a sword that still pierced her shoulder and she bit her lip hard against the pain. She backed up toward the mast and tentatively stepped onto it when something caught her eye, making her pause.

A lone, hooded figure stood behind the crush of enemies, distinct in his stillness amid the chaos. He watched her with calm resolve in his familiar silver eyes and steepled his tattooed hands before his lips.

She went cold with fear and almost tumbled into the water, just barely catching her balance. When she glanced back, the figure was gone, but one of the hooded men had closed the distance and was stepping onto the mast with her. She skipped backward, tripping across it as quickly as she could, while several more men followed her out over the water.

"Hawke! Hurry!" Anders cried urgently. She turned and ran, throwing herself over to the other ship's deck. She fell heavily onto her wounded shoulder in a shaky roll, just as the mast exploded in flame. The stoicism of the hooded men abandoned them at last and they fell screaming and burning into the water below.

Hawke staggered to her feet and wiped sweat and soot out of her eyes. "Run!" she gasped, out of breath. They exited the ship onto the adjacent pier and sprinted back toward town. Luckily, the pier joined up with the dock front some distance from the original one, where the hooded men were already racing to give chase.

Within minutes they were clear of the docks and barreling through town. The now crowded streets of Gwaren teemed with townsfolk at the start of their day. Varric was in the lead and took them through several abrupt turns that quickly confused Hawke's already poor sense of direction. Eventually they appeared to be in the market district, where laden wagons and browsing customers clogged up the byways. A glance behind her showed no sign of pursuit, but they couldn't relax yet.

She stumbled after her companions, stomach churning at the unshakable image of the silver-eyed man and the mindless, soul-deep fear he engendered. The fact that he was connected with the hooded men was too much to process. The dark abyss of memory threatened to swallow her.

_Now. What shall we discuss today, Marian?_

Suddenly, Cullen grabbed the back of her jerkin to pull her along as she missed yet another quick turn down a narrow alley. "Keep up, Grace!" he barked.

She scowled at him but the taunt had succeeded in bringing her attention back to their current situation. They had left the market behind and were now in a warren of narrow alleyways in the slums at the edge of town. Drying clothes hung on lines over their heads, fluttering in the wind and stirring the shadows along their path. They moved swiftly in a line down the rank byways. Although they had stowed their weapons, the companions still elicited fearful glances from the few unfortunates they passed.

They advanced another block or two before Varric slowed their headlong pace. They stopped and waited while Varric slipped on ahead, and after a seemingly interminable wait, he returned and motioned for them to follow quietly.

They crept down the foul-smelling alley and out onto a broad, muddy road that meandered in the direction of the main thoroughfare out of Gwaren. A rickety wooden fence surrounded a paddock where lean horses milled. Several of the animals flicked their ears forward and watched the companions approach with large glassy eyes. Varric strode toward a wide gate where a saddled horse was tied. Its full saddle bags bore the insignia of a courier and it appeared ready to depart. As Hawke drew closer she could now see the figure sprawled in the mud near the horse, still breathing but unconscious. The man also bore the courier insignia on his tunic, but his heavy set frame and upscale clothing suggested he was more than just a rider.

"Let's get the other horses saddled before anyone comes looking for this fellow," Varric said briskly, moving to open the gate.

Hawke paused for a beat, aghast. "We're stealing horses? We're the kind of people now that I'm usually hired to track down?"

"Relax," Varric replied. "I left the overseer here enough money to cover the horses. And his trouble. But it's better he doesn't see us. Plausible deniability and all that. Plus we need to move."

"Indeed," added Fenris. "Hawke, if they're watching the port, then our best hope is to head overland as swiftly as we can."

She worried her lip. "I suppose that's the only way. Okay, north to Denerim it is, then. Let's mount up."

Varric walked over to the saddled horse. "All right, Templar. Give a dwarf a hand up?" he said in a pained voice.

Cullen walked over to him, keeping his expression completely neutral. "At you service, Ser Dwarf." He laced his fingers together and held them cupped for Varric's foot.

Varric gave a long suffering sigh. "No laughing now." He stepped into Cullen's proffered hand and was vaulted into the saddle. Varric looked askance at the long distance to the ground and then at Hawke. "The things I do for you," he grumbled. He shook his head and, with a practiced toss of his wrist, urged his mount forward.

Hawke couldn't stifle her giggle anymore and Cullen grinned back.

ooXXoo

_Brecilian Forest  
Ferelden_

Racing away from Gwaren, they struck out directly north along the dramatic foothills, avoiding the main route out of the city that led through the Brecilian Passage. The winding but flat seaside road allowed them to get some speed out of their mounts until they had gained enough distance from the city to head into the steep, forested hills via a narrow hunter's path. As they wended their way single file, Merrill hung behind to hide their tracks until they were well out of sight of the road. It was much slower going, but it would have been foolish to move faster in the falling darkness anyway.

There was no sign of pursuit, but just in case, they rode into the night until they were half-dead from exhaustion. By the time they stopped to make camp, Cullen had started leading Merrill's horse since she could no longer stay fully upright in her saddle. Once the horses were tended, they all collapsed on the ground without setting a watch or starting a fire, and in Varric and Anders's cases, without even pulling out their bed rolls.

The sun was well up when Cullen awoke. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and saw that only Hawke was awake, sipping on a steaming cup of tea in front of a small fire. He stretched, trying to work the kinks out of his back from sleeping like the dead in one position all night.

"Would you like me to make you a cup?" she asked when he sat down, motioning to the small pot of cooling water next to the fire. When he shook his head, she said, "Thank the Maker we had all our belongings with us when we fled Gwaren. It would have been a dark day if I'd been forced to leave behind my tea supplies." She smiled at him, the little dimple making an appearance.

"Imagining you without tea this morning, I find myself grateful as well," he said dryly and she chuckled. "How long have you been awake?"

"I couldn't really sleep," she murmured. She nodded at the half-healed score on his forearm. "So Anders actually patched you up?"

"Mostly." Cullen flexed his bicep which boasted a white bandage around the wound Anders had decided would heal on its own. "So, if I might ask, who were those men yesterday? It seems there is a history there."

Her smile fell away immediately. "Yes, there is a history, which now spirals wide to include you, too." She sighed and shook her head. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. You already know that we've been on the run all these years after what happened in Kirkwall." She gave a huff of humorless laughter. "And then the Circles. There are a lot of offenses laid at our feet, true or not. So, we've dodged templars, mercenaries, city guards, Antivan assassins, you name it, but these men dressed in black . . . they are the most dogged."

"Who are they?"

She shrugged. "We don't know. They don't stop to ask questions or demand anything of us. They just attack. They're well trained, disciplined, and strangely resistant to magic. They've followed us across multiple countries, almost anywhere we've gone. So they must have resources. But they've no obvious heraldry or livery. Whoever they work for, I don't think we're meant to know." Her eyes lost focus as they stared into the fire, withdrawing into her memories. The haunted look he often puzzled at was back in her eyes.

Regardless of how common the encounters with these men had been in their past, this time it had spooked her. He said as much, which made her head swing toward him in alarm. "I've told you everything I know," she snapped suddenly. She wrapped her hands around her tea and hunched up her shoulders, turning back to the fire and effectively ending their conversation.

 _And they think I_ _'m temperamental_ , he grumbled to himself. He went to start packing up his bedroll and noticed that Anders was now awake and watching them.

Once underway, they moved steadily north in the general direction of Denerim, relying on Merrill's knowledge of the forest. Hawke remained withdrawn the rest of the day and not just from Cullen. Solicitous inquiries from her friends were met with monosyllabic answers. When they stopped to make camp that evening, Hawke said little through dinner and soon after retreated to the stream, mumbling something about washing the dishes.

Cullen finished his preparations for the night and found himself strolling down to the stream with Hawke's tea pot in hand. He was working so hard at not examining his motives that he was startled by Varric's voice coming from the darkness ahead.

"—because it's obvious you're not fine. That doesn't work with me. What gives?" There was no answer so Cullen stopped, also waiting. "Did something happen during the fight at the docks?"

After another long pause, Hawke's voice said, "I saw him." She spoke so softly, Cullen had to strain to hear her. He tiptoed closer, his curiosity getting the better of his manners, and crouched down behind a lush fern growing out of a hollow log. Through the screen of foliage, he could only see the indistinct silhouettes of Hawke kneeling next to the stream and Varric sitting down on a nearby boulder.

"Him?"

"The one who held me. Who . . . interrogated me."

"Holy shit. You saw him in Gwaren?" Varric said in alarm. "Are you sure?"

"He was with the hooded men. Watching the battle unfold. Always watching . . ." She trailed off before continuing. "It makes me wonder if he was behind it all along. That the reason these men are after us is the same reason I was captured."

"Anders," Varric said, sounding resigned.

"Anders," she agreed. "Of course, we've always known that we were being held accountable for everything that happened in Kirkwall that day, big and small, making it almost fashionable to pursue the legend we've become. And lucrative. But, that man. His goal was always very specific, almost personal, in his single-mindedness in finding Anders."

Varric snorted. "Lucky you didn't actually know where he was at the time."

"Lucky," she repeated in a slightly strangled voice. "I'm not quite sure about that. Regardless, it seems it's not over. The silver-eyed man. These faceless, hooded men who've been chasing us. It all makes sense now. A perverted, frightening sense." She was quiet again.

"Hawke—" Varric moved toward her with a conciliatory arm outstretched, his voice lowered in concern.

She quickly stood up and turned away from the dwarf, crossing her arms across her body. "I suppose I should be glad that I'm not just being paranoid to imagine him coming after me again." She laughed and it was an ugly, forced sound.

Varric lowered his arm. "He's after all of us. You're not alone in this."

"No," she said in a low but emphatic voice. "He's not going to harm anyone else."

"Hey, none of that hero stuff. We're all in this together."

"That's what worries me. Merrill. Fenris. You. We're all targets."

"You don't need to worry about us."

She continued like he hadn't even spoken. "And, now we've drawn Cullen into it, too. After everything he went through, paying for our sins, all on his own. After I did nothing to help him. Now I put him at risk again." She sighed.

Cullen was now listening so hard, he had almost stopped breathing.

"Hawke, you've got to stop. You couldn't have saved him," Varric said softly.

"I could have." Hawke's tone sounded almost belligerent, like this was an important point somehow.

Varric shook his head sadly. "I know you don't like to hear it, but for the thousandth time, there's nothing you could have done. You've got to stop beating yourself up about it. Even if you had known what his friends did to him at the Gallows, you were flat on your back for months. The fact that your legs work so well now is nothing less than a miracle. Not a one of us would have let you ride off to save someone from your death bed. So, if you feel the need to blame someone . . . blame Anders." This finally got Hawke to laugh.

Cullen sat back on his heels in shock. Hawke felt guilty about his incarceration. Apparently, she hadn't even known. The righteous outrage he relied upon to fuel his rancor already had been hard to maintain in the face of her damnable compassion. This just confused things further. Shaken, he didn't want to hear any more and so slowly crept away into the dark wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope to get back to more regularly posting this story, as there's plenty more to come. Another four chapters in the queue, plus more to be written. Thanks so much for reading! Next Up: Chapter 10: _Nightmares_ , where we'll learn more about Hawke's trauma after leaving Kirkwall.


	10. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen finally learns what happened to Hawke after she left Kirkwall, and Anders extracts a promise that puts Cullen in a difficult position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if this chapter needs a trigger warning for mentions of torture. :/

As Cullen slowly backed away from the confidences he'd overheard, a faint crunch of fallen leaves caught his attention. He immediately froze, cursing himself for getting so distracted that he'd no consideration for his surroundings. He held his breath, straining to hear more, and caught a movement in the shadows around a nearby oak. A closer inspection brought him face to face with a baleful Anders, who was crouched behind the tree's broad trunk, not a dozen paces from where Cullen had been hiding. Cullen opened his mouth to defend his eavesdropping, but Anders put a finger to his lips and jerked his head to the right, indicating Cullen should follow him.

They walked quietly through the overgrown paths until they were far enough away that they wouldn't be overhead by Hawke or the others at camp. Cullen prepared his excuses as they walked, since Anders needed little encouragement to be suspicious of him. He settled on telling the truth, such as it was, that he had been retrieving water for tea but hadn't wanted to interrupt Varric and Hawke.

When Anders stopped, Cullen took a deep breath. "It isn't what you—"

Anders held up a hand. "Save it." He gave Cullen a long, measuring look. "How much of what you just heard did you understand?"

Knowing there was no point in lying about how much he had overhead, Cullen said, "Only a little. That someone captured and interrogated Hawke in order to try to find you. Someone who seems to have frightened her badly, and from whom you all have been trying to protect her since before I joined you."

Anders nodded. "You're very observant. After we fled Kirkwall, it was only a few months before someone caught up with us—well, caught up with Hawke." His mouth thinned to an angry line and his nostrils flared. "She was locked up in a prison in Cumberland and . . . tortured for my whereabouts. When we finally rescued her . . ." He grew quiet and pale, his eyes distant, trained on the painful memory. "She was a mess. My healing skills could only do so much. She was recovering for months. You'd never guess that her body had been so broken, seeing the way she moves today. I've never . . ." His voice failed him and he cleared his throat.

 _Maker._ It was so hard to imagine Hawke as a victim, but the evidence was there. The hunted look in her eyes. The tremors of fear she evinced being out in the open in Gwaren that first time. The crisscrosses of lash marks across her smooth back, which, gentleman or not, he couldn't help but notice living in such close quarters.

Cullen frowned as additional pieces fit together. "Why weren't you with her when she was taken?" he asked with an accusatory edge in his voice

Anders raked a hand through his hair. "If you must know, I'd . . . Well, I'd just . . . left her." When Cullen only raised his eyebrows in surprise at this non-answer, Anders let out an explosive breath and said, "We'd just split up, okay? Not that it's any of your bloody business! This wasn't supposed to happen."

Cullen snorted in disdain. "You sure about that? Terribly convenient for you."

Anger suffused Anders's face. "How dare you?" he snarled, his voice trembling. "You think I knew that would happen after I left? You actually think I would allow Hawke to bear punishment for my sins? It should have been me! Me! All I have done now for three years is try to keep her safe." He crossed his arms and looked away. After a minute, the rigid line of his shoulders started to relax and he muttered, "I came back once I heard, but it was too late."

 _Interesting_. This was quite a different picture from Hawke's view that Anders was trying to punish her. For how little remorse the mage seemed to show about the fallout from the Kirkwall Chantry explosion, apparently there was at least one thing he regretted: putting Hawke in harm's way. Finally the complicated man started to make a bit of sense. "And you have no idea who captured her?" Cullen asked.

Anders turned back, his face composed again. "No, it was all very mysterious. The guards were just hired hands. They didn't even know who was paying them. We planned it so the leader, the man with the silver eyes, wasn't there when we snuck in. So we never even saw him."

"And now it seems he is back."

"Which is why I have to leave," Anders said.

"Come again?"

"I can't continue to put Hawke in danger like this. Not this time."

"Isn't it possible that you leaving Hawke's side the first time contributed to her capture?"

Anders's eyes narrowed at the reproach and his anger started to simmer again. "I didn't want anyone to know where I'd gone that time. Anyone. This time will be different. This time, they'll follow me, away from Hawke."

"You honestly think that will work?"

"It has to. My presence only creates complications for her. This is for the best." Anders stopped and his eyes darted nervously toward Cullen. "I want you to tell her that I left because I thought her daft new mission to save the world was too dangerous and destined to fail. Of course, without me, maybe Sebastian won't kill you all on sight. So this is a win for everyone, really." The corners of the mage's lips lifted in a brief attempt at a smile.

"Why not tell her the truth?" Cullen asked.

"She doesn't need the truth. I don't want her to be constantly looking over her shoulder, wondering when I'll come back." Anders looked him fully in the eyes, like he was trying desperately to convey his sincerity, even while he squirmed in discomfort. "Can you do this for me? Please? I . . . I need you to protect her."

Cullen suddenly felt lightheaded as the proverbial rug was pulled out from beneath him again in this night of confounding revelations. Hawke frightened and feeling guilty about Cullen's fate. Anders asking for his help. Asking for Cullen to _protect_ the woman he'd come to betray. "Why me?" he asked in some exasperation, genuinely puzzled.

"Because, for all our personal differences, I know you can do what needs to be done. The others are too close to her, too compliant. And . . . I think you will protect her, almost in spite of yourself."

Cullen's mouth worked as he tried to form a word, any word, wanting to deny the mage's allegations but unsure he should. Or could.

Anders took an agitated step toward him, one fist clenched at his side. "If you knew what it's costing me to ask for your help! Please. Say you will."

_This is madness._

"I won't lie for you," Cullen said with a mulish set of his jaw. He had enough lies to manage on his own without borrowing someone else's.

"It's not for me. It's for Hawke. A-and it's not a lie, exactly, it's an omission. I could shake her for agreeing to get involved with this war," Anders said and then jabbed a finger at Cullen. "For agreeing with you! None of the parties involved, not the templars, the mages or the Divine, can be trusted not to turn on her when convenient. She's just a pawn to them. But does she listen to me? No! She's listens to you!" Anders paced away, releasing his nervous energy, and then spun back around. "You know, fine! Lie. Don't lie. Tell her whatever you damn well please. Just keep her safe. You owe me that much, Templar. You owe _her_ that."

_I don't owe her anything!_

Cullen clenched his jaw in frustration, torn with conflicting feelings. _How did I get myself in this position?_ After all, this was what he signed on for: pushing this woman to the forefront of the war without regard for her safety. So then, why did he feel a pang of guilt at the mage's words?

"Very well. I'll watch over her. But I don't promise anything else," Cullen said. His mouth went dry while he mentally kicked himself.

ooXXoo

When Hawke discovered Anders was gone the next morning, she was furious. Exactly at whom, Cullen wasn't exactly sure. At first, she wouldn't even believe him that Anders had entrusted him with explaining to her.

"And why would he tell you?" she asked, her jaw jutting out pugnaciously.

"Perhaps because I have no reason to stop him."

This finally interrupted her angry pacing. "Huh. Clever. So then where did he go?"

"He wouldn't tell me. Only that he didn't want to participate in your daft mission to save the world." Cullen flushed. "His words," he quickly added. While he was technically telling the truth, Cullen still felt the burden of Anders's lies of omission.

"Well, at least he told someone _something_ this time," she muttered. She violently threw her things into her pack and then started toward the horses. "Let's go. He can't have gotten far."

"Um, Hawke . . ." Varric began. She spun back around and glared at the dwarf, who made no move to follow. "If he doesn't want to come with us, maybe we should let it lie this time." The nervous looks between her friends confirmed that this was dredging up memories from the last time Anders had left, for all of them. "He was never completely on board with your plan," Varric said, bravely pressing on. "And, you did give us the choice."

Merrill and Fenris both looked on in mutinous silence. Merrill wrung her hands and her widened eyes snapped back and forth between Varric and Hawke. Fenris hunched his shoulders and shifted from foot to foot, frowning thoughtfully.

"Hawke, there are also certain, er, advantages to him going his own way," Cullen added, inwardly wincing at how callous he sounded. "Perhaps this Sebastian Vael person would actually help you now."

"Is that what Anders told you?" Hawke said. Her lips twisted bitterly. "He's right of course. So there's the one advantage to us being shorthanded." Hawke's whole body seemed to deflate while her face became alarmingly blank. "Fine. If this is his choice then so be it. Let's get ready to move out." She shouldered her pack and trudged to her horse.

Merrill, Fenris and Varric shared more concerned looks. "She'll be all right, Daisy," Varric said quietly. "It's not like last time."

"It had better not be," Merrill said. "Or I will deliver Anders to the templars myself. On a silver platter." Cullen was shocked at her matter of fact tone, which somehow made the slender elf's threat all the more believable.

"You and me both," Varric muttered under his breath.

"Make that _we three_ ," Fenris added grimly.

They packed up and were soon underway. Merrill's familiarity with the dense forest allowed them to move swiftly on a mostly direct course in spite of the steep hills and meandering paths. Barring any detours, Varric estimated it would take them nine or ten days, which would put them in Denerim with about a week to spare before the royal ball. Further discussion of their options for getting into the ball initially avoided the obvious avenue now open to them with Anders's departure, but after every other option had flaws, Varric pointed out that Sebastian was still their best chance. So they proceeded with a plan for approaching the Prince, all without explicitly naming Anders and receiving no more than an absent nod or two from Hawke.

Hawke had become even more subdued and now resisted any attempt from her friends to draw her out as they traveled. Cullen wasn't sure he heard more than two words out of her the whole first day after Anders left. The next day she started riding beside Cullen, perhaps because he didn't constantly try to cheer her up like the others did. Or perhaps because he reminded her the least of Anders. Cullen couldn't be sure.

The strange malaise that had overtaken her actually worried him. The hunted look had now permanently settled on her face and she seemed oblivious to her surroundings, like she focused on some inner demon. He could almost hear Anders's snide remarks in his head about what a splendid job he was doing watching over her. Cullen had rationalized his promise to Anders with the fact that he already was in the habit of watching her, warily of course, so he didn't understand why he was starting to feel genuinely protective.

He puzzled over this during his watch that night. He sat a short distance from the banked campfire while the midnight stars wheeled overhead. There was no breeze and even the night sounds of the forest had quieted. With nothing else to distract him, he could no longer avoid examining the revelations he'd overheard, or the conflicting jumble of emotions they'd caused.

Hawke's remorse over his imprisonment. Her torture. Her guilt and fear. None of it was what he'd expected, despite all the indicators he could see in hindsight. It felt petty now to resent her successful escape from Kirkwall, for in the end she'd paid almost as dearly as he had. The simmering bitterness that had filled him the last several years was gone, replaced with a hollow emptiness. Without his hate, what did he have? _Just a fool's errand of a mission._ He closed his eyes.

A frantic murmuring caught his attention near the fire. Rustling her blankets, Hawke shifted in her sleep, wildly flopping an arm over her face and mumbling in distress. He frowned as she moved again, flinging her hand a shade too close to the fire. Thrashing her head from side to side, she moaned softly, sounding frightened. He was already on his feet, moving toward her, when the thrashing intensified. "No," she muttered, "nothing . . . nothing to discuss." Her eyes were still tightly shut. "N-nothing," she whimpered with a sob.

His own experiences with similar nightmares told him not to wake her too abruptly. He knelt down beside her on one knee. "Hawke, you're safe," he whispered soothingly. "Everything is fine." Her eyes rolled in terror behind closed eyelids and her mouth opened in a silent scream. He started to reach out to her, but stopped, his fear of touch warring with his instinct to protect. Instinct won, and he brushed back the sweat-soaked hair plastered to her forehead. "Shh, Hawke, go back to sleep."

She suddenly jerked straight upright, startling him into falling onto his backside. With unseeing eyes she stared at him and grabbed his shoulders in a desperate grip. "Anders?" she said in a small, hopeful voice.

Trying not to startle her awake, he said gently, "It's okay, Hawke. Sleep now."

Her eyelashes fluttered and her eyes cleared. "C-Cullen?"

"Hawke, it was a nightmare. Nothing more. Go back to sleep," he said. She took several gasping breaths and started to tremble. "You're safe now. It's all right," he said, trying to sound comforting. Instead she threw her arms around his neck and started weeping into the juncture with his shoulder. He froze in shock, completely out of his depth with this degree of intimacy, and fought the urge to push her away. Quiet sobs wracked her frame and she tucked up her feet, curling into him. He held completely still, and for several stunned moments tried not to breathe. Unsure of what else to do, he hesitantly closed his arms around her shuddering body

He awkwardly patted her shoulder, murmuring whatever tumbled out of his mouth in a desperate attempt to calm her. He didn't know how long they sat like that, but when she suddenly stiffened, he knew she was aware of her surroundings at last. He immediately let go and leaned back, hoping she didn't think he was getting too familiar. The wet spot on his neck cooled as she moved away.

She crossed her arms across her body. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me," she said. Her voice was rough from crying and she wouldn't look him in the eye. "Forgive me."

"Nightmares are nothing to be ashamed of. Take it from someone who knows." The corner of his mouth quirked up. She glanced at him briefly and then away again. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. Instead of answering, she wiped her damp forehead with a hand that still trembled. "Come. I'll make you some tea."

He stood up and busied himself by the fire, giving her space to collect herself. The tea was steeping when she sunk down next to him with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She accepted her cup wordlessly and blew on it, all without looking at him directly. "You know," he started, "I had nightmares for years after the fall of Kinloch Hold. Of varying degrees, but almost every night. I found they would become worse when something triggered a memory of what happened."

"I suppose I should feel fortunate that mine are only occasional then," she said stiffly. She took a careful sip of her tea, glancing at him warily out of the corner of her eye.

"I didn't mean to suggest that yours aren't significant, Hawke. Each one takes its toll."

"I just don't like to talk about them. I don't usually . . . You know, normally, I don't . . ." She hunched her shoulders.

"Normally you deal with them on your own. I understand."

"It's just . . . Talking about them . . ." She shook her head, unable to find the words. The play of firelight on her face emphasized the dark hollows under her eyes.

"Talking about them makes them seem more real, like these things really did happened to you," he supplied.

She lifted her chin. "Who said anything about them being real?" she said with only a slight tremor in her voice.

"Aren't they?"

Her face fell. "Yes," she whispered.

He looked up at the night sky. "The chantry sisters in Greenfell used to say that, although talking about what had happened to me was painful, it was the only way to put it behind me and begin to heal. In the end, they were right."

"I would never want to burden someone with that."

He waited patiently until she glanced at him and he caught her gaze at last. Her face was ashen and her green eyes appeared almost black in the dim light. Bruised and haunted. "Hawke, you keep saying that you trust me. Well, trust me in this. I truly think it will help." He spoke out of instinct, but still winced at the irony that for once he was completely sincere.

She sipped her tea for several minutes, staring into the flames, and he assumed she was going to ignore his offer. But then she took an unsteady breath and started talking. Haltingly, she told him about the chain of events that had led to her capture in Cumberland. That after her fight with Anders and his disappearance, her ensuing frantic search for him had made her sloppy. How she sat in a cell for a week or more before anyone even spoke to her, apparently waiting for the arrival of the man with the silver eyes.

Dressed plainly, but all in black, the man was unremarkable. Regular features, mild-mannered, soft spoken with a lilting accent she couldn't identify. He never said his name. His only distinguishing features were his peculiar silver eyes and a series of tattoos on his hands where snatches of the Chant of Light were inscribed in a looping script. He arrived in her cell at the exact same time every morning, and initially asked the exact same questions, over and over in a measured way, all the while watching her with those inscrutable silver eyes. It was very simple, he had said. He wanted to know where Anders was. But she had no answers to give, even if she had wanted to. It took quite some time, however, before he would believe her, and by then it hadn't mattered any way.

When the initial round of questioning didn't yield the information the man wanted, the questions shifted, as did his methods. He asked her about everything, Kirkwall, Meredith, Hawke's companions, her childhood in Lothering, her battle with the Arishok, her relationship with Anders. It was none of his damn business so initially she had resisted. But that was when he had started to hurt her. All done in the same measured way, in the same even tone of voice, the same complete lack of emotion, according to the same toll of the clock each day.

"And so . . . he . . . broke me," she whispered.

"He didn't."

She nodded her head sadly. "Oh, he did. I told him everything then. Anything he asked. Anything." She spoke so softly that he barely heard her above the hiss of the fire.

"You didn't tell him what he wanted to know. You didn't tell him where Anders was."

She laughed bitterly, her voice cracking. "Because I didn't know! If I'd known, I would have told him." She looked down, pinching the bridge of her nose, but he saw the tears dripping off her cheeks. She sniffed pathetically.

"But you didn't. Hawke, you didn't do anything wrong. Anyone would have done the same in your situation. And despite that, you still kept your friend safe. Everything that happened to you, you're not to blame." The voice of Greenfell's Revered Mother echoed in his memory, trying to convince him of the same.

A visible shudder ran through her body. She brought both of her hands up to cover her face and new muffled sobs slipped out from between them, her heartache laid bare by the raw sound.

Looking over her bowed head, he met Varric's open eyes. The dwarf's expression was stricken, but he remained motionless on his bedroll. The look he gave Cullen spoke very clearly of his concern, and all Cullen could do was nod to reassure him. Cullen reached out to Hawke and clumsily patted her shoulder again. She collapsed against him, still crying but more quietly, and hid her face against his shirt. He took a fortifying breath and self-consciously put his arm around her shoulders. Varric gave him a single nod of approbation and then closed his eyes again.

Cullen wasn't sure how long he should stay that way after she had cried herself out. He was waiting so intently for a sign that he should let go, focusing on the rise and fall of her chest against his and the warm touch of her breath fanning against his neck, that he initially missed the fact that she had dozed off. He waited a few more moments for her breathing to regularize before carrying her back to her bedroll. She rolled onto her side, pillowing her head on her hands and sighed.

He brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across her forehead with his fingertips. "Sleep well, Grace."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: **Chapter 11: Trust** , which is a lot lighter and, um, well if you've read some of my other stuff, you might have read an early draft of part of this chapter. :) Thanks for reading!


	11. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke draws closer to Cullen in the wake of Anders's departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Effectively changing the rating to M, and now with more fanart!

Cullen awoke the next morning to chaos, with feet tramping past his head and a babble of voices around him. He sat up and groggily knuckled the sleep from his eyes until it sunk in that they were breaking camp already without him. He scrambled to his feet and hurried to do the same, yawning and fumbling with his recalcitrant bedroll when Hawke appeared next to him.

Bright eyed and dressed for travel, she looked none the worse for her emotional evening, and in fact, the bloom had returned to her cheek. Wordlessly, she took the bedroll from his clumsy grip, rolling it expertly and stowing it away before handing him a cup of hot tea and a hard biscuit. Still befuddled, he could only blink at her muzzily.

"I told them to let you sleep," she said, flashing him a tentative smile before ducking her head and moving away to help with the horses

Once they were underway, she rode beside him again in companionable silence, making no mention of their midnight chat. He tried to look for signs of the previous night's depression, but each time he glanced her way, she seemed to anticipate him, catching his eye for a split second that made the blood pound in his ears before he could look away again. He became so focused on not watching her, for once, that it was a relief when she started to ply him with innocuous questions that kept his mind occupied and his wandering eye in check.

She asked him about mundane things, his early days in Kirkwall, his training at Kinloch Hold, his interest in becoming a templar. He was happy to oblige her, even if he didn't think his answers were particularly interesting. At first, he figured she was just getting him talking so she didn't have to, but when she later asked follow-on questions it became clear she'd actually been listening

She made for a surprisingly rapt audience and after a few days of this, the shadows finally lifted from her eyes. He knew she was almost back to her old self when she started to tease him about some of the more conservative aspects of his training, seeming to delight in embarrassing him. It was annoying, and yet he persevered, if just to keep the smile on her face and the clouds at bay. This was sometimes more challenging than others.

"So you claim that fraternization doesn't happen within the Circle," she had started that morning, toying with her horse's blond mane in a way that suggested she was up to no good.

"It isn't a claim. It is a fact. Fraternization is not allowed," he patiently explained again. "Neither with mages nor with other templars."

"So you say, and yet there must have been at least one that caught your eye, given how many were throwing themselves at you." She smirked at him, daring him to deny it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said in a stiff voice, refusing to rise to the bait even while the blood rushed to his cheeks.

"Oh come now, Cullen. No one is that oblivious. Half the Gallows scheduled their day around your noontime trainings out in the yard." She snickered. "I must admit, I even snuck in once to watch."

His throat suddenly became so dry that he started hacking and coughing, and thankfully it was a moment before he had to come up with a response. The thought of Hawke spying on his often shirtless training sessions back in Kirkwall was unsettling, to say the least. Far from oblivious, he had turned the situation into a kind of private game he played on those misguided enough to ogle him. That Hawke might have been among them, by choice, sparked a blossom of heat in the pit of his stomach that was more than just embarrassment.

"It's a shame you valued your time so little," he grumbled when he could speak again.

"Oh, it was time well spent," she said, grinning unrepentantly. But, like a dog with a bone, she wouldn't stop. "I can name at least four templar recruits in Kirkwall who joined the Order only because of you," she continued in an almost off-hand manner.

"Merrill!" Hawke called to the mage, who was riding just ahead of them with Varric. "You remember that one recruit. What was her name? Ruvena?"

Merrill glanced back over her shoulder and giggled. "Oh, that's right. What did she used to say about the Knight-Captain? That he _inspired_ her?"

Varric chuckled and joined in. "I bet she wishes that she'd been _inspired_ by him."

Hawke laughed. " _He_ _'s everything a templar should be_ ," she said in an affected voice, sighing melodramatically.

" _Soooo handsome and brave_ ," Merrill continued. "And _stalwart_. Apparently _stalwart_ is an attractive trait to a templar." She and Hawke devolved back into giggles.

Cullen was speechless with mortification, wishing he could just laugh it off but knowing his cheeks were flaming. He had received enough ribbing about this from the other knights at the Gallows for this to be well-trod territory, and yet years later, he still had no good response. Thankfully the templars had eventually stopped calling him Poster Child, but only because Meredith had stepped in.

"Now, now, ladies," Varric chided. "Templar has no control over people joining the Order for such questionable reasons."

"Precisely," Cullen agreed in a clipped voice.

"Nor control over how good looking he is," the dwarf added, with a lopsided grin at Cullen.

Cullen sighed and rolled his eyes. "More to the point, regardless of the veracity of these rumors, a crush is not fraternization."

"Hmm. That's not what I heard about the Hero of Ferelden," Hawke said, her green eyes dancing.

"You heard nothing," he snapped suddenly, making her blanch and even surprising himself with his vehemence. Merrill and Varric shared a wide-eyed glance and moved their mounts away, lengthening the distance they rode ahead of Cullen and Hawke and their now awkward impasse.

Cullen grumped silently as they rode on. A decade later and he still couldn't escape the fallout of his ill-advised infatuation with Solona Amell. As a youthful fancy, his unrequited feelings for the hero had been harmless—at least, until they had been used against him as a psychological tool in his torture. Never something he enjoyed talking about, his crush on Solona was something he found he was particularly reluctant to discuss with Hawke.

In the meantime, Hawke sat rigidly in her saddle, glaring intently at her horse's ears. Seeing her withdraw back into her shell, Cullen immediately regretted his rudeness. He pictured Anders's disapproving sneer.

"Um, what I'd intended to say was that there's not much to tell," he said lamely. "When I was young, yes, I was very fond of Solona Amell."

After a moment, she gave him a sidelong glance that was brimming with curiosity. "So you were close?"

"Not exactly. Isn't that how crushes are?" He smiled crookedly.

"I suppose. Although the gossips always made it sound like more. As did Meredith's odd prohibitions on discussing your, ah, acquaintance with my cousin."

 _Cousins. Right._ It was still hard to accept the coincidence that they were related, however distantly. "It was a long time ago." He didn't offer anything else, hoping Hawke would drop it.

She bit her lip and then blurted, "Were you in love with her like they say?"

It had been so long since he'd really thought about his youth at the Tower, before Solona had become a Grey Warden, before the visions and the torture. "Who can really say any more? Nothing ever came of it except pain. There's a reason there are rules against fraternization."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, chastened at last. "I didn't mean to stir up painful memories."

He nodded, accepting her apology. After another long pause, as if she couldn't help herself, she asked, "What was she like?" Hawke sounded slightly wistful, which he attributed to awe of a famous relative.

"It's too bad you never met her. She was a remarkable woman. Something that seems to run in the Amell family," he said. She blushed and began winding a wisp of hair around her finger, finally falling silent. She was quiet so long that he started to worry she'd fallen back into her funk, so he actually was glad when she started asking impertinent questions about private bathing inside the ancient Tevinter fortress that housed the Gallows.

The turn of the season toward summer was more marked as they trekked northward away from the coast and it quickly became unseasonably warm. The thick leaves of the verdant oak trees provided some relief from the rising temperatures, but any break in the canopy had them sweltering.

Their progress became sluggish and they did what they could to keep cool. Merrill braided her and Hawke's long hair into intricate crowns piled atop their heads and off their necks, and then tried unsuccessfully to wheedle Cullen into letting her do the same to his heavy locks. Since it would be imprudent to forgo armor while traveling through the dangerous wood, Cullen overheated each day in his heavy armor, while the others limited themselves to the bare essentials. Hawke had taken to wearing only a snug leather vest over a thin, equally sleeveless shift that left an inappropriate amount of skin exposed. When Cullen expressed his disapproval, in the interest of her safety, she just laughed off his concern.

Most alarming was how the heat started chipping away at his self-discipline. Time and again he found himself distracted by the graceful line of her neck revealed by her upswept hair or the sway of her hips when she rode ahead of him. It was even worse when she rode beside him and he struggled to avert his eyes from the immodestly plunging neckline of her vest. Too often he would lose the train of their conversation over odd details he would notice, like the faint glow of perspiration along her upper lip. The heat must have started addling his brain, but she certainly wasn't helping.

She had to be aware of his wandering attention and whenever he got flustered she would smile mysteriously and change the subject yet again, like she enjoyed distracting him. Nighttime became a welcome relief when Cullen could peel himself out of his sweaty armor to sleep under the cool night air, closing his eyes against green-eyed temptation.

Before he knew it, they were only a few days out from Denerim. Hawke called a halt early the day before they expected to leave the forest and meet up with the West Road. She had been watching Cullen all morning with a speculative look that made him unaccountably nervous.

"Time to dust off our respectability," she announced. She indicated the gurgling stream that raced towards a pond that could be glimpsed in the distance through a tangle of dense reeds. "We can procure more upscale clothing when we get to town, but for now let's relieve the stench." She grinned broadly, obviously including herself in this criticism.

"Thank the creators," Merrill said with a languid stretch. "We've all become a bit ripe with this heat."

"Speak for yourself, Daisy. I'm like a breath of fresh air," Varric replied.

"Perhaps if that breath of air traveled to us all the way from the gutters of Orzammar," Fenris countered with an arch of his eyebrow, making Merrill giggle.

While the group dispersed to prepare for their ablutions, Hawke approached Cullen, her smile turning mischievous. "Now it's time to tidy you up as well."

"What do you mean?" he asked warily.

"The beard and hair? Useful for scaring people off, but we need to be respectable—and recognizable—if we're going to get in to see the Prince." From behind her back she produced a pair of shears, snipping them in the air twice to illustrate her point.

"Um." He cleared his throat, eyeing the shears with trepidation. "I thought, um, it was better for me to remain incognito?"

He looked at Varric for support, but the dwarf spread his hands, offering none. "Not my call, Templar. You're on your own."

"The time for hiding is over," Hawke said. "And that includes you, Cullen." She gave him a toothy grin, unable to suppress her apparent glee at this turn of events.

ooXXoo

Cullen jumped when warm breath tickled his ear and long dark hair swept over his shoulder.

"You've got to relax. Perhaps the time has come for you to start trusting me," Hawke said softly against his ear. A wild curl of her newly unbraided hair tickled his cheek. She chuckled evilly at his discomfort and then straightened, allowing him to breathe a little easier as she moved back.

 _Trust_. That was of course easier said than done. He glanced apprehensively at the flash of razor sharp metal at the edge of his vision.

"Trust must be earned, Grace. First let's see if I come through this with my blood unshed."

"Such a lack of faith," she chided, continuing her cutting.

"I have faith. Just not in sharp implements working so close to my neck. And primary arteries." He knew she was a master of the blade, but this was very different. It was much more personal and required much greater control. She did tend to get clumsy around him for some reason.

She leaned into his ear again, accidentally brushing against him with her lips as she spoke. He froze. "Faith is believing in something bigger than yourself," she said, repeating his own words. "I'm the Champion of Kirkwall. And my skills are _boundless_." The last word came out in a husky whisper, followed by another smug chuckle. He held his breath until she moved back, and swallowed hard.

While she resumed her work, he glanced around him at the multitude of long, tangled curls littering the bank of the pond next to which he sat. With the fading sunlight picking out the reddish highlights in the twisted golden lengths, the discarded hair looked almost macabre, like she was cutting away the painful history that had led to his dramatically changed appearance.

The others had finished their bathing and could be heard in the distance preparing dinner, leaving Cullen alone with Hawke at the secluded pond. A situation he was starting to regret. Once she had set her mind on it, Hawke could not be deterred from cutting his hair, so finally he had relented. _How bad could it be?_ he had told himself, forgetting the impact of the hot weather and her limited clothing on his judgment.

He took a deep breath and tried to center himself again, holding still against the insistent tug and snip at the back of his head. Periodically she would manhandle him, moving his head this or that direction with hands that felt hot against his inexplicably flushed skin. He was acutely aware of her as she moved behind him. The rustle of her clothing. The smell of her sun-warmed skin. The feather-light touch of her fingertips along his scalp. The heat whenever her body pressed against him, presumably to steady herself as she cut, but he was starting to wonder.

Each time she touched him it got harder for him to sit still; instead he felt the urge to flinch, fidget, respond. It was only his deeply ingrained training that kept him in check despite his building need to do . . . something.

She was moving toward the front of his head so he could now see her out of the corner of his eye. Her catlike green eyes were narrowed in focus and her tongue peeped up from between her lips. She had stripped down to her sleeveless linen shift, which fluttered slightly in the cool breeze that rose with the dropping afternoon temperatures.

He, on the other hand, was shirtless, something she had insisted upon so he wouldn't end up with shorn hair everywhere. Or, so she had claimed.

She pulled a long lock of hair down straight from one temple and he held deathly still, closing his eyes when the shears came within his field of view. A loud _snip_ and her hold loosened.

"Relax," she said in an amused voice

His eyes snapped open as soft fingers sank into his shaggy beard and used his chin as an anchor to move his head to and fro so she could review her work. She had moved in front of him to focus on the crown of his head, and as she stepped in to cut more from the top, he found himself staring into her considerable cleavage. He blinked in surprise, wanting to avert his eyes like a gentleman but knowing he couldn't move.

From across the nearby pond, another cool breeze blew over his overheated body, a balm to the cold sweat that had broken out on his skin. He learned it was chilling her as well when the too thin fabric of her shift suddenly revealed, rather definitively, that she wasn't wearing a breastband.

He clamped his eyes shut, willing himself back to stillness, willing his body to stop reacting, as a creeping heat formed in the pit of his stomach and his heart rate sped up. He tried to keep his eyes shut, truly he did, but he was only a man after all. Was looking really as sinful as touching? He decided it wasn't.

Her tawny skin gleamed in the sun from the sheen of sweat. She stood still as she combed and cut, but each tiny movement caused her breasts to sway slightly under that damnable shift, its thin white fabric no longer hiding but teasing what lay beneath.

She instantly reclaimed his attention with another hand on his chin, tilting his face up to hers. "There, you almost look like the old Cullen again," she said with a satisfied smile. "Now for that horrid beard."

He took another deep breath, looking inward for extra reserves of control. He succeeded in ignoring the newly transparent spots on her white shift where the shaving water had dripped. He breathed deeply of the clean smelling soap instead of humming in pleasure at the teasing sweep of the shaving brush around his face. But his successes were short lived.

He looked askance at the wicked-looking flat razor she then produced, but his concern was immediately subsumed by white hot panic when she nudged his knees apart with her leg so she could sidle closer. He could feel her warmth radiating through the shift, her bare skin now just a breath away from his and her leg an inviting pressure against his inner thigh. His breathing sped up and he would have shied away but for the hold she had on the back of his neck and the sharp razor she ran along his throat in lazy, even strokes.

He tried to close his eyes again, hoping she hadn't noticed the internal battle he fought with himself. Or the external signs that he was losing. Badly. But his traitorous eyes inevitably flew open again, appreciating too much the contrast of her soft curves and strong hands, the temptation of the pink tip of her tongue that peeked out again between her full lips, the glistening along the swell of her breast and the hollow of her throat. The only respite for his overwhelmed senses was when she turned away to clean the blade, but even then he found his eyes hungrily following the long, graceful lines of her body as she bent over.

  
[Finally you start to look human again. by Chenria](http://chenria.deviantart.com/art/Finally-you-start-to-look-human-again-449956208)

Thankfully, she was about finished, focusing carefully on the area around his nose, when she finally slipped. He felt a small blossom of pain at the corner of his mouth at the same time that she swore softly.

"I'm so sorry, Cullen," she said. Without thinking what it would do to his tenuous self-control, she licked the pad of her thumb and brought it to his lip to wipe away the blood.

A shudder ran through him at her touch and before he knew what he was doing, his hand shot up, grabbing hold of her fingers. He met her startled eyes and watched them darken with desire as he brushed his lips against the very tip of her thumb.

They both just stared at each other with wide, hot eyes, frozen for the space of an instant. An instant where they could have stopped, but didn't.

With a groan of desperation, he roughly pulled her into his arms for a bruising kiss, slanting his mouth across hers. She went limp, melding to him, and then scrambled so she was sitting in his lap, straddling his legs. His arms wrapped around her with one hand snaking up to the nape of her neck and tangling in her loosened hair. He held her tightly against him, moving her head just so to give himself better access to her lips. In blind need, his tongue danced with hers, answering temptation at last with a thoroughness that surprised him.

She had wrapped her long legs around his waist, moving ever so slightly against him from within the confines of their tight embrace. But, the mild friction drove him higher until, like a drowning man seeking air, he couldn't get enough of her. His hand slipped under her shift, sliding up the hot skin of her back and then around to the flat planes of her stomach. She gasped as his hand closed on her breast, which instantly pebbled against his rough palm.

He released her mouth and kissed his way down her neck to her other breast, taking it in his mouth through the thin linen of her shift and gently teasing with his teeth. The counterpoint of the rough fabric and the smoothness of her skin was intoxicating, and he was ready to be done with the tedious clothing.

Then, an entire flock of geese suddenly sprung into the air right above them, taking flight from the pond. Heart drumming in his chest, he pulled Hawke against him, protectively wrapping his arms around her. Breathing raggedly, he scanned the area, trying to determine the actual source of the disturbance, while she held still against him, her lips pressed to his shoulder. When no threat appeared, however, the implications of his actions all came crashing down on him.

_What in the Void am I doing?_

Was he really intending to perform such a sacred and private act in this way? Lewdly fraternizing with his leader, his target, whom he couldn't allow himself to trust? A woman who was already foolish enough to trust him? Panic welled up again along with the return of his self-loathing.

"Maker above, I-I-I can't do this." He jumped away from her so abruptly that she tumbled unceremoniously to the ground.

"W-what?" She stared up at him open mouthed from where she had fallen, her gaze slightly unfocused from the lingering haze of desire.

"Spare me your wicked temptations, woman," he spat, hating himself for his weakness. For his own still-burning desire. For his undiminished need to hold her close and safe.

"But, I thought . . . I'm sorry . . . I thought . . ." The wide-eyed look of hurt and confusion on her face was too much for him to bear.

He made a frustrated sound deep in his throat and strode away from her toward the water's edge. With a smooth dive, he broke the surface, the cold water an instant blessing and relief that started to wash away his desire and shame. He concentrated on sharp, clean strokes and was soon far from the shore. Far from her.

 _Trust_. Much easier said than done. How could he possibly begin to trust her when he couldn't even trust himself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: **Chapter 12: Denerim** , where we arrive in Denerim and meet a familiar face, while Cullen and Hawke's relationship deteriorates further.


	12. Denerim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Seekers learn of Hawke's return to the world stage. Meanwhile, the companions risk further exposure by visiting an old friend in an attempt to secure entry to the King's ball in Denerim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tickled to release this chapter at the start of Sebastian Appreciation Week on Tumblr. :) As always, thanks to my beta for being willing to start reading for me again as I move forward with this story.

_Seeker Stronghold_  
_Val Royeaux_  
_Orlais_

Lowell hurried down the cold stone hallway of the Seeker Stronghold, but checked his headlong pace after rounding the corner into the Great Hall. Standing between himself and the new Lord Seeker's office was a blond-haired serving woman primping before a golden mirror on the wall. He stopped before she saw him and stepped into the shadow cast by an ancient tapestry featuring robed figures cowering before knights under a black sun.

Of course, he need not have bothered since she was focused completely on the mirror. Or rather, on what she saw reflected there. She had set down a tea tray on the narrow table under the mirror, shirking her duties, in order to smooth her too-shiny hair and pinch an artificial blush into her pale cheeks. She was merely the latest occupant of Colin Marchand's bed, but the kitchen staff reported she was putting on airs with the other servants. As if her service to the Lord Seeker was somehow more valuable than theirs. Lowell snorted silently before changing course to skirt around the edge of the hall unseen and continuing on his way to the Lord Seeker's office.

The dim stone hallway was draped in even more intricate tapestries whose stitching recorded the Order's past glories while the heavy layers of brocade attempted to mitigate the keep's natural chill. The ancient stronghold may have weathered the dark times from when the Chantry was new, but the aged halls were no match for the dank cold and ever present drafts. The new Lord Seeker's office was the one exception.

Upon his election as Lord Seeker, Colin had immediately modernized the chamber. He had engaged the White Spire's remaining mages to enchant the mage lights and a hearth fire that, in a variation on the Chantry's eternal flame, heated the room without tending. Mounted on the wall behind Colin's tidy desk was a shield bearing the Chantry sun in dark red and two swords crossed at the guards. The Marchand coat of arms, first bestowed on Colin by Viscount Dumar of Kirkwall to honor one of the city's most decorated scions. It was the only Marcher heraldry in the Orlesian Stronghold, and a source of whispered scandal for being earned instead of inherited.

None of the Seeker's military leaders looked up when Lowell entered, focused as they were on Colin and the large map splayed on the table before him. The soldiers were dressed in a mix of bright swords of mercy and dark all-seeing eyes, some accompanied with colorful cloaks of office. Templar lieutenants danced attention on the red-cloaked Knight-Captains and the blue-cloaked Knight-Commanders, who in turn deferred to the heads of the Templar Order, the mysterious, black-cloaked Knights Divine.

The four Knights Divine served directly under the Divine and were said to function so seamlessly as a team that they often communicated without words. The three knights stood apart from the rest, as they always had, but now there was a discernible disharmony, like an invisible hole in their ranks where their fourth member normally would be. Although they declined to discuss it, the rumor was that she had remained loyal to Justinia. One of the first casualties of the war.

Within the circle of armored men, Colin looked almost as if he were praying, with his hands steepled before his pursed lips and his eyes downcast. He studied the small troop markers distributed at strategic points across the map on his desk.

A series of pewter swords of mercy, standing upright on small stands, flagged the current troop locations of the templar army. The templar marker sitting atop the circle marked _Andoral's Reach_ represented their crowning achievement of the war so far. The first skirmish against the mages had been a resounding victory, routing the College of Magi leadership and scattering the Circle refugees. Unfortunately, the mages had learned their lesson and no longer gathered in large numbers, preferring instead smaller, guerrilla-style attacks over frontal assaults against the armored, magic-immune knights on horseback. The templars now fought a war on multiple fronts, reduced to chasing after rumor and hearsay to learn the location of the heart of the mage rebellion and to stop them once and for all.

Lowell crept along the dark stone wall to a discrete spot behind Colin, biding his time to engage his master's attention.

"This is pointless!" exclaimed Lord Rochester, breaking the silence and gesturing sharply with one hand. Rochester scowled blackly in disapproval. A common occurrence in the days since the Conclave and the defeat of his bid to become Lord Seeker. "The Orlesian civil war is the perfect opportunity for the mages to strike back. The intelligence we received from Val Chevin is good. I say we move there." Colin continued to study at the map without looking up, but more than one of the templar lieutenants nodded in agreement at the outburst. Lowell made a mental note of which ones.

"But we've also heard of a groundswell of mage attacks along the coast in Rivain. We know the people there have always been sympathetic to the mages," said the old Rivaini Knight-Commander from the Dairsmuid Circle. "Particularly after the Annulment," he added with a disdainful sniff. It was known that the man had always had a problematic relationship with the mages there, so the fact that he had been the first to use the Right of Annulment in the war had surprised no one.

The others started to talk all at once, opening the floodgates of opinion and conjecture. Unnoticed by any but Lowell, the blond serving girl came in and started to serve her tea at last.

Colin let the chatter continue for a minute before he stood up. He looked around the room expectantly and, without having uttered a word, commanded the room to silence.

Once every eye was on him, he said simply, "We go to Ferelden."

No one spoke immediately. The Knights Divine exchanged loaded glances under lowered brows. Many looked openly baffled, or in Rochester's case, scornful.

"Surely you can't be serious, Marchand—" Rochester began.

"You will address him as Lord Seeker!" Lowell found himself saying, surprised at his own vehemence. While Lord Rochester's title was more an honorific, a remnant of the noble bloodline he had technically given up upon joining the Seekers of Truth, Colin had earned his title. But even within the Seeker ranks, the Orlesian preoccupation with bloodright remained.

Rochester narrowed his eyes, and the puckering scar at his eye almost hid the dangerous glint there. "With all due respect, _Lord Seeker_ ," he growled in a tone barely civil. "Ferelden does not require our attention. In fact, it appears to be the one place where the Purge has done its job. There have been few reports of mage reprisals there."

"Precisely," Colin agreed coolly, making Rochester frown. "The mage underground strikes at Val Chevin. The hedge witches fight back in Rivain. There are raids on the supply lines outside Ostwick. Ambushes in the Dales. The list goes on. But the silence from Ferelden is deafening. The mage leaders are there."

Germaine, the eldest of the Knights Divine judging by the gray hair thinning at his temples, stroked his chin. "You may have a point. King Alistair's neutrality on the mage issue could make it a haven for the Circle refugees. Nevertheless . . ."

"Where in Ferelden do we strike?" continued a second knight standing at Germaine's shoulder. "Do you have any proof the rebels are there?"

Rochester snorted. "Tall tales and wishful thinking," he said.

"We have evidence," Colin said sternly and his nostrils flared slightly. "The Champion of Kirkwall moves in the world again. She's been sighted in Ferelden."

The Knights Divine glanced at each other again. Germaine said, "You think there is a connection? Has she become involved in the war at last?"

"Has she not always been?" Colin countered.

"Her legend, certainly," the knight replied. "No one can deny she was there when it all began. But otherwise, the woman has been suspiciously absent since then."

"You think she is in collusion with the mages in Ferelden?" the knight beside him asked.

"She has been seen in the company of the mage Anders," Colin announced. At these words, the room erupted into murmurs and exclamations.

When the room started to quiet, Germaine said, "So. Circumstantial evidence."

"I believe the mage's sudden appearance after all this time could be the key," Colin said. "After three long years, this is the lead we've been waiting for. We're currently tracking his movements. We undoubtedly will have more intelligence soon."

"Even more wishful thinking," Rochester muttered, shaking his head.

The Knights exchanged loaded glances again, speaking their silent language before Germaine responded. "We applaud your zeal over the years in striving to bring the Terrorist of Kirkwall to justice, Marchand. But, as I'm sure you would agree, the mage underground is our priority."

"Your personal vendetta will have to wait," Rochester said smugly.

Colin didn't spare a glance at Rochester, although a muscle jumped in his jaw. Addressing himself to Germaine, he said smoothly, "It has ever been our priority, which is why I believe we're getting close."

Colin leaned forward and tapped a finger on the map, where a tower was drawn in the marshlands north of Lake Calenhad, at the edge of the Waking Sea. "We will move our base of operations to Jainen, on the northern Fereldan coast, and from there we will deploy our scouts. The Circle in Jainen, while small, is an accessible base while we narrow our search. From there we can take ship to much of Ferelden in a matter of days. With Anders, we already have found our needle in haystack. Soon we will find the heart of the rebellion. And crush it."

Several of the knights clapped their support for the plan, and the whole tenor of the room shifted. Colin had them again, eating out of his hand, as he so often did. Lowell even clapped himself, enjoying the rare occasion to express himself so openly.

Above the din, a discordant voice was heard, female and out of step. "A brilliant plan, my Lord!" the blond serving woman cried out.

Everyone in the room looked at her in astonishment, many seeing her for the first time. Everyone but Lowell, who instead watched Colin and saw the exquisite control in his master's neutral expression. Colin regarded the woman distantly, like one might observe an errant fly foolish enough to land your sleeve. He paused for that moment when you consider shooing it away versus killing it, and then said to her, "That will be all."

She immediately flushed, recognizing too late her miscalculation, and squared her shoulders before hurrying out of the room in mortification.

Colin stepped into the middle of the room, centering the attention on himself again. "We will find the mage underground. But to do so, we need to leave behind our city comforts, gentlemen, and take the fight to the wilds and hinterlands and to the mages that hide there in the dirt and squalor." He raised his hands like a shepherd drawing the assembled into his flock. "Maker guide our steps."

Colin smiled, shook hands and exchanged brief pleasantries as the templars and seekers filed out of his office. As the last departed and the door shut, Colin sunk into his desk chair and glowered broodingly at the map. "They cannot evade our grasp much longer, Lowell."

"No, my Lord, they cannot," Lowell agreed, clasping his hands and continuing to wait patiently to give his report.

At last, Colin straightened and asked briskly, "So. What news?"

"There have been several sightings of the Terrorist, my Lord. He is on the move, traveling in the Bannorn in Ferelden," Lowell said.

Colin's eyes lit up and he pondered this news. "Several sightings?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "That seems rather . . . careless."

"Indeed. In one case he even clashed with some local templars just north of Lothering. There was no sign of the Champion, however."

"I see," Colin mused, considering this news with a furrowed brow. "Nevertheless, she must be nearby." He looked up at Lowell. "Stay on him. They may see him as a secondary concern, but I know that Anders is the key. We will bring him to justice yet."

"Yes, my Lord. I'll give the order. Once we move to Jainen, there will be no escaping us."

Colin's face pulled briefly into a fierce smile. "He has to make a mistake someday. Now we will be there when he does." He stood and started to pull on his gloves. "That's all for tonight, Lowell. Oh, except for the girl. You'll take care of it?"

"Of course, my Lord." Lowell smiled.

Colin paused. "Actually, the lashes can wait until tomorrow. Send her to me tonight."

"As you say, my Lord."

ooXXoo

_Denerim  
Ferelden_

As Varric had predicted, Denerim was buzzing with news of the new baby and the ball celebrating his birth. Colorful banners hung in every street they passed on their way toward the market district. The crowds and bustle steadily grew, and before they reached the central square, hawkers and merchants already clogged the byways. The market now overflowed with tradesmen looking to cash in on the swell of visitors to the city. Every street now was lined with rickety wooden stands selling everything from memorabilia commemorating the occasion to aphrodisiacs for encouraging heirs of your own.

Hawke led the companions on a winding path through the crush and had already brushed off two unsubtle attempts to lift her purse. She ducked her head as they passed another city guard patrol, one of the many they'd seen trying to maintain some semblance of order. Her friends followed suit, keeping their heads down until the patrol had passed. Merrill toyed with the tiny snow globe Varric had purchased for her that featured tiny figures of King Alistair and Queen Elissa holding a featureless blue blob in her arms.

They elbowed their way across the market square to the inn where they typically stayed, but every room had been let. The story was the same at the next six inns and taverns until finally they found one room to rent for the five of them at a rundown inn bordering on the nearby slums.

Varric dropped his gear in a pile on the floor and surveyed the small room. The late afternoon sun that filtered in through the grimy and smudged windows revealed a small bed with a straw tic and barely enough floor space for the whole party to lie down flat. "It's going to be cozy. Lucky we all get along so well," Varric said. Hawke unconsciously glanced at Cullen but angrily turned away when he met her eyes. Catching the interchange, Varric sighed. "Yup. Lucky."

Hawke hadn't spoken with Cullen about what had happened at the pond. Or about anything at all since then. She was both furious and mortified. She couldn't forget the look of disgust on his face as she sat there, rejected, in the dirt.

She knew he watched her when he thought she wasn't looking, and up until then, she'd assumed it was because he found her attractive, too. How wrong she had been.

_Sodding ingrate._

Besides, it wasn't as if she had planned for any of that to happen. Her efforts to transform his appearance had worked all too well, if the admiring glances from the Denerim females they'd passed were any indication. Clean cut again, with his hair short and his face bare except for the faint stubble that had grown up overnight around his goatee, Cullen was almost the mirror image of his Kirkwall self. Tempting at the best of times, and that was with his shirt on. Add in the heatwave that already had everyone's faculties running slow and emotions running high . . .

She shivered at the memory. Yes, in retrospect, she should have let him keep the shirt on.

_Handsome bastard._

"I'll go scope out where Sebastian is staying. I won't be long," Varric said. "Play nice." He eyed Hawke and Cullen and quickly left. Merrill babbled something about going to the baths and followed Varric out the door, slipping out with her newly purchased clothes in hand. Fenris's expression of dismay suggested that he was searching for an excuse to leave as well, but before he could say anything, Cullen cleared his throat noisily.

"I need to go to the Chantry," Cullen announced to no one in particular, starting toward the door with his head down.

"No," was Hawke's flat response.

Cullen stopped at the door, his hand already on the handle, but didn't turn around. "But—"

"No," Hawke repeated. "For this to work, Sebastian needs to see everyone he will have to vouch for. We all have to go."

"Understood," Cullen said, still without looking at her, and retreated to a far corner.

"No forgiveness today," Hawke muttered before stumping to the door and yanking it open to go find the baths herself.

ooXXoo

The wait in the drawing room of Sebastian's Denerim estate was longer than expected. Hawke willed herself to be still, concentrating so her fingers did not pluck at the stiff ribbon edging her new tunic. Or grip the dagger tucked into her skirt at the small of her back. If Sebastian decided now was the time to exact his revenge, they were at a severe tactical disadvantage. Without meaning to, her eyes sought out Cullen who stood near the door. At ease but alert, the former templar stood tall with his hands clasped behind his back and his feet planted in a militaristic stance at odds with the simple black tunic and trousers he wore. He intercepted her glance, but only nodded once in encouragement. She smiled tightly in response, pleased that they could put aside their differences for the moment.

Finally the door creaked open. "His Highness will see you now," intoned a liveried servant, directing them inside.

Hawke followed, still on edge. She reached around behind her and started to finger the dagger through her tunic, but a warm hand slipped over hers and gently moved it away from the weapon. She glanced over her shoulder at Cullen. "Steady, Grace," he said softly.

"He hasn't killed us yet," Varric said with a shrug. "That's got to be a good sign."

After a long hallway paneled in dark wood they entered a brightly lit, book-lined study. Sebastian sat in an ornate, high-backed chair behind a large wooden desk and did not bother to rise when they entered. He was a study in princely nonchalance, leaning on the gilded arm of the chair and propping his chin on his closed fist. Only the tension in his shoulders gave away his unease to someone who knew him. His brown hair had grown out and swept back from his widow's peak to brush the shoulder of his forest green cloak. The bright blue, guileless eyes she remembered were now shadowed with old pain and new responsibility.

"It's been some time, Hawke," he said in a controlled voice, his familiar burr making her unexpectedly wistful.

"It has."

He looked around the room at her friends, nodding at each in turn. "Varric. Merrill. Fenris." He paused on Cullen, frowning in an attempt to recall. "Knight-Captain Cullen?"

Cullen tensed. "It's just Cullen now," Hawke interjected.

Sebastian nodded once, accepting this at face value, and then turned back to Hawke. "Is he still with you?" Sebastian's tone was deceptively neutral. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

"No. He's gone his own way."

"Shame. I've worked a long time to be able to look him in the eye without killing him."

"Would you really have let us in if he were with us?" she asked, genuinely curious.

He gave her a cold smile in answer. "So, what brings you to my door, Hawke?" he asked smoothly. "I must admit, I was surprised when I received word that you were here. I don't get many requests for an audience with wanted fugitives."

"I understand you'll be attending the royal ball."

"I didn't know the Champion of Kirkwall was moving in polite company again."

"Sebastian . . ." She took a deep breath. "I need your help. We need to get into that ball."

He only raised his eyebrows in response and she started to worry that their mission was in vain. "Why?" he asked at last.

"I'm trying to fix what we started back in Kirkwall. I intend to talk King Alistair into hosting a parlay between the mages and templars. To stop the war."

"You plan on doing this at a ball?"

"Unless you can get us an appointment at the palace?"

"Admittedly, a ball is easier . . . _If_ I were going to help you." Sebastian spoke slowly, weighing each of his words and their impact.

There wasn't much she could say to that. She wasn't going to beg. He either was willing to help or he wasn't. Hooded blue eyes bored into hers as her last hurtful encounter with Sebastian rose unspoken between them, like a phantom mourning their broken trust and long-expired chance of reconciliation. No one moved or spoke while she waited for him to make up his mind. In the uncomfortable hush that fell over the room, she could hear the hawkers in the street outside the mansion, evidence that the royal birth hysteria reached even into the Palace District.

Eventually, Sebastian nodded sharply and straightened from his affected slouch. "You risk much, coming out in the open. Coming here. I've kept my ear to the ground for news about you and heard only whispered legends from those who hunt you. Do you truly think you can bring peace?"

"All I can do is try. Please, Sebastian, I'm not asking that you get directly involved. All we need is entrance to the ball. We'll do the rest."

Sebastian nodded again. "So long as that is clear. Starkhaven is not to be formally involved or implicated. I will arrange for your admittance, but then you're on your own. I do this to honor our former friendship, Hawke. But no more."

"I understand." She couldn't blame Sebastian. It was already more than she'd dared to hope for after the way they'd left things. She could still picture Sebastian's tear-stained face twisted in despair and hate, blaming Anders and her for Elthina's untimely death. So much had been destroyed that day.

They moved to talking about the details, and Sebastian insisted that the less he knew about their activities, the better. The ball was a masquerade which made it even easier to hide them among his retinue. Sebastian instructed his chamberlain to give them use of the tailor that was costuming the Starkhaven party. When Hawke tried to thank him for the additional favor, he brushed it aside, pointing out that it did no good to compromise their cover by being poorly dressed. Once the arrangements were set, Hawke moved to leave.

"Hawke," Sebastian said hesitantly from behind her.

She turned around to see that he had gotten to his feet. The stoic facade he'd worn throughout their interview slipped, revealing a trace of her old friend, complete with a furrowed brow that suggested a deeper concern than he'd been willing to let on. "A word of caution. For old time's sake. If you succeed here, I would presume that you intend to approach the templars about this parlay. Perhaps you've already heard that they have just elected a new Lord Seeker. Colin Marchand."

She shook her head since she hadn't heard and waited for him to continue. He seemed to be choosing his words very carefully. "You should know that . . . he's a Kirkwaller. We grew up together as initiates of the Chantry, before he took his templar vows and was promoted into the Seekers."

He paused again, and his hesitance started to worry her. "And?" she prompted.

"Let's just say that his feelings about Elthina were rather similar to my own."

"I see. So, he's angry about the Kirkwall Chantry, too."

"No, I'm not sure you do see. Elthina was literally like a mother to him, raising him after his parents died when he was a small child. She was his only family and he's not as . . . forgiving as I am. I suppose what I'm saying is you should tread carefully with him."

"Thank you for the warning, Sebastian, and for everything. I promise you won't regret it."

He nodded curtly and sat back down in his chair. "Maker watch over you, Hawke."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next up: Ch 13: _One step forward, two steps back_. :) Yup. The ball. Hee hee.


	13. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke, Cullen and friends succeed in crashing Alistair's ball, and it goes both better and worse than they expected as they encounter some familiar faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual thanks for my beta for reading this chapter. Twice, since I kept fiddling with it!

_Royal Palace_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

"His Royal Highness, Prince Sebastian Vael, of Starkhaven."

A dull roar of murmurs greeted the announcement as Sebastian stepped into the royal ballroom. Magnificently dressed in white and gold and wearing a simple gold circlet, the prince commanded every eye as he swept down the grand staircase.

Spotless white marble steps, accented with gilded banisters, led down to the black and white tiled ballroom floor. The massive staircase split halfway down into twin flights of steps. At the foot of the steps, nestled between the two curving staircases, a fountain tinkled in welcome. A golden statue stood at the center of the fountain, a golden trio of nude women with outspread wings and linked hands. The golden ostentation in the ballroom's design suggested an Orlesian influence, a sign that the occupation would never be completely erased in Ferelden.

Unnoticed, the companions peeled off from the rear of the Prince's entourage and regrouped at the pale marble balustrade surrounding the landing at the top of the staircase. Cullen adjusted the unfamiliar ribbon of his black satin mask where it pressed uncomfortably behind his ear. He couldn't understand how Orlesian chevaliers could abide the loss of peripheral vision to such masks. He already found himself warily glancing over his shoulder to check his environs, a habit not usually seen among the carefree gentry attending the King's ball. He forced himself to relax and not break their cover.

It didn't take long for Sebastian to reach the ballroom proper and the flurry caused by the handsome, unmarried prince was easily visible from their vantage point. "I think it's safe to go in now," Varric said.

Hawke nodded. "One challenge down," she murmured under her breath. She grabbed the massive skirts of her green ball gown in two white-knuckled fists before starting her own descent down the polished stone steps, teetering precariously in the ridiculous, heeled shoes Sebastian's tailor had provided. Encumbered with both the shoes and the heavily layered skirt, she was earning her nickname in spades tonight, much to her increasing annoyance and Cullen's not-so-secret delight.

"May I give you a hand down the stairs, Grace?" Cullen asked while trying not to smirk.

He held out his arm, but she pointedly ignored it, still holding her gown in two hands. "If I wanted help falling on my ass _this time_ , Cullen, I would ask for it," she said through clenched teeth, concentrating on each step.

Cullen flushed at the gibe while the others all looked away in amused discomfort and Fenris coughed in an unconvincing attempt to smother a laugh.

Cullen and Hawke's temporary truce had ended shortly upon leaving the Prince's estate. In the days since, she only spoke to him when necessity required, or to share similarly passive aggressive barbs. He should address the situation, apologize or something, but he was too ashamed of how he had acted at the pond that day. So, instead, he avoided the issue as well, like a coward. He wished he could escape to the Chantry in the vain hope that Andraste's grace could help cleanse his guilt and ease his conflicted thoughts. But every time he tried to slip away, Hawke's wordless scowl of disapproval forbade him.

Cullen rolled his eyes at Hawke's wobbly steps down the slippery staircase. The woman's pride was going to get her killed. "For pity's sake, the banister is there for a reason," he growled.

"And if we can avoid any further unsolicited and unnecessary advice, we should do well," she snapped without looking at him, setting her jaw mulishly as she continued down on her own. She kept her eyes fixed on the step below her and so was completely oblivious to Cullen's hand hovering against her wishes just behind her elbow.

In contrast to Hawke, Merrill floated down the stairs, as surefooted as if she wore shoes every day. The elf's face had been frozen in a smile of incandescent joy since entering the Royal Palace, and her smile had only grown since stepping into the glittering ballroom. Varric finally had encouraged her to keep her dark blue sequined mask in place so she wouldn't stand out so much.

Hawke successfully reached the main floor without incident, allowing Cullen to retract his steadying hand with her none the wiser. She made an attempt to brush out the wrinkles she'd crimped into the skirts, swearing softly at the "foolish pretension" of her costume. Unfortunately, Cullen couldn't quite agree with her about the dress.

True to Sebastian's word, each of them was elegantly dressed at the height of fashion, blending in perfectly with the Denerim elite. But in Hawke's case, the tailor had done his job too well. While the others were dressed in more neutral black and, for Merrill, dark blue, Hawke's dress was a vivid green, like the dressmaker had tried to match the exact shade of her eyes. The shiny confection fit her like a glove and was crowned with a slim green mask adorned with an ostentatious fan of peacock feathers. Apparently no one had apprised the dress's designer of their interest in avoiding attention. But, at least for once, Cullen wasn't the only one having a hard time keeping his eyes off of her.

Unaware of the scrutiny, Hawke squared her shoulders. "Let's figure out where the King is and get this over with," she grumbled, trudging onward into the crowd.

Cullen had to force himself to look away from the mesmerizing sway of green satin in front of him. After the foolishness at the pond, he could no longer delude himself that his preoccupation with her was purely professional, but it had been more difficult than expected to stop his traitorous eyes from constantly seeking her out. Tonight it was well-nigh impossible, even with the chilly distance that had grown between them.

With a disgusted shake of his head, he tried to survey the room. The checkered dance floor was filled to capacity with masked couples dancing a lively country reel. Some wore traditional masquerade masks that complemented the wearers' costumes while others wore more Orlesian-inspired aristocratic designs bearing ornate sigils and coats of arms.

The companions skirted around the dancers and soon discovered Alistair.

The blond king was easy to identify since he was unmasked and, like Sebastian, was at the center of a lively crowd of well-wishers, all jostling for a chance to congratulate the happy royal father. Stern guards stood discretely behind him, discouraging the overzealous who tried to jump the queue.

"This may be more difficult than we anticipated," Fenris commented. The elf looked unexpectedly regal in jet black velvet that made a striking contrast with his silvery hair and tattoos.

"We just need to watch for our chance," Varric replied. He turned to Merrill and bowed. "Would you like to dance, milady?"

"Oh, yes!" Merrill said, taking Varric's proffered hand.

"What happened to watching for our chance?" Hawke said sourly.

"Watching is what templars are for." Varric clapped Cullen on the arm and then led Merrill out onto the dance floor without a backward glance.

Hawke barely stifled her bark of laughter. Cullen shook his head and sighed, resigning himself to watching for an opening with the King amongst the sycophantic devotions of Denerim's glitterati.

Varric and Merrill joined the colorful swirl of couples moving through complicated patterns on the dance floor. Merrill obviously knew none of the steps, but she made up for this with her preternatural grace and contagious enthusiasm. Varric watched the Dalish woman with glowing eyes.

Hawke was also the subject of numerous admiring and curious glances, but no one dared approach her with Cullen glowering from behind her shoulder. Or, almost no one. One short-sighted Orlesian aristocrat minced toward them, too lasciviously focused on Hawke to notice Cullen's quelling stare. The man was dressed in a foppish surcoat of lilac and his mask was so large and ostentatious that a servant was forced to walk at his side carrying it with two hands. The Orlesian simpered at Hawke and launched into a confusing and slightly risqué metaphor about her beauty. But before Cullen could send him packing, Hawke cut the man off with an expletive-laden rejection that was so crude even Cullen's ears burned to hear it.

After the courtier had fled to nurse his offended pride, Cullen leaned over Hawke's shoulder. "My Lady Hawke, is that how you were taught to mingle in high society?" he said drily in her ear.

She turned around and scowled at him. "I am not a lady. And, you know when he praised my _shining orbs,_ he didn't mean my eyes! He's lucky he didn't get a blade between his orbs."

"Please don't tell me you came to the King's ball armed, Hawke." He tried to sound shocked, but it came out more amused.

"A girl is always prepared," she said primly.

"Are you suggesting that you have room in that dress for a weapon?" Without thinking, he let his gaze slide down her figure, trying to imagine where it could be hidden.

She waited for him to look her in the eye again, and he flushed at being caught ogling her. "Are you suggesting that my dress is too snug?" she asked in a soft voice at odds with the dangerous glint in her eye.

His next rejoinder froze on his lips as a familiar woman with short red hair approached them, her bright blue eyes boldly unmasked. She stopped in front of Hawke without even glancing at Cullen, and the corners of her lips turned up in the impersonal smile he remembered from his interrogation. "Champion, so lovely to see you again," she said warmly in her Orlesian accent.

"Sister Nightingale," said Hawke with a marked lack of enthusiasm. "I should have figured that a mask wouldn't fool a bard."

The sister wore an elegantly beaded dress of pale pink, its simplicity and subtle sunburst design almost mimicking a Fereldan Chantry robe. Around her neck was a delicate silver chain suspending an amulet in the shape of a silver sword of mercy. "For one versed in the Game, a mask does not conceal, but illuminate."

Hawke grunted. "Strange to see you in such a _public_ setting."

"I might say the same thing about you," the sister replied. "So, what brings the elusive Champion of Kirkwall out of hiding?" She tilted her head to side as if she didn't already know the answer. "Royal births are prodigious, certainly, but far from earthshaking." Cullen held his breath, wondering what game the woman was playing. She still hadn't acknowledged his presence.

"My business is my own," Hawke replied, her tone barely civil.

"Ah. I am sorry. I did not mean to pry." The sister's expressive lips pouted a moment before she continued. "When last we spoke, it was the eve of considerable earthshaking, no? All eyes were on Kirkwall, as I told you at the time. And what a show you gave them, before you slipped into the night." She gave Hawke another faux smile. "Like a criminal."

Hawke's nostrils flared. "Yes, how embarrassing that the Chantry needs criminals like me to help curb its own radicals." Their eyes locked and Cullen could only watch helplessly.

Why was the woman needling Hawke after all the effort she'd spent maneuvering the hero into doing her bidding? This Sister Nightingale was even more dangerous than he'd supposed.

With a trill of laughter, the sister was the first to look away. "I did not come over here for a quarrel. I only came to say hello to an unexpected face. Whatever the cause that brings you back into the world, I hope that it is worthy. Always a pleasure, Champion." The sister turned to the companions, nodding her head in parting, but stopped when she seemed to notice Cullen for the first time.

Her eyes lit up appreciatively, but also with an unfortunate flicker of recognition. "And, who is this you are hiding away at the wall?" She laughed again and took a step toward Cullen. "Strange to see a crusader for mage rights keeping company with a templar."

"You know each other?" Hawke asked in surprise. Her too-curious eyes bounced between them before settling on Cullen, demanding answers he couldn't give.

His mouth worked silently as he struggled to answer. Why would the sister reveal their connection? Did she want Hawke to suspect him? A cold trickle of sweat worked its way down the small of his back.

The sister gave another trill of laughter. "Ah, my manners. Ser, you are too polite to admit that you've forgotten our acquaintance. We met at the Circle Tower in Ferelden, albeit under rather dire circumstances. I was with the Hero of Ferelden when she liberated the Tower from Uldred. I am Leliana."

Cullen started in both surprise and relief. _So that's why she looked familiar_ , he mused. He knew Solona hadn't been alone that night, but his memories of it were still imperfect. Another tiny piece of his past snapped into place.

"And you are . . . Cullen?" she continued. "Did I remember that right?"

"I-I-I am," he stammered. "I-I apologize. I didn't recognize you."

"Not to worry. We have all come a long way since then. Do you still see Solona much?"

Dumbfounded by her banal small talk, he was grateful when Hawke came to his rescue. "Did _you_ know her well?" she interjected to Leliana.

"As well as any of us could. Isn't that right?" Leliana said to Cullen, giving him a peculiar look like she was sharing some inside joke with him. "Now, be a dear and lead a partner-less chantry sister for a dance? I'm sure the Champion won't mind." She shot Hawke a bland smile and then grabbed Cullen's hand without letting him respond, dragging him toward the dance floor.

Caught off guard, he followed for a few steps before looking back at Hawke for permission. Hawke's face had gone completely still.

"H-Hawke?" he asked.

"By all means," she said in a clipped, emotionless voice.

Caught between his two masters he could only follow the sister— _Leliana_ , he corrected himself—to the dance floor. Joining in the stately procession, he was thankful for the slow pace which allowed him time to delve into his childhood memories for the steps to the Fereldan country dance. The Orlesian woman said nothing, so he asked, "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Dancing? It is a ball, Cullen. Not so unusual, I think."

He ground his teeth. "I mean dancing with me. It's a foolish risk."

"Ah yes, but now we have the excuse of reminiscences to share. Plus, you clearly have not looked in a mirror of late. You clean up quite nicely and templars have always been a weakness of mine." She smiled absently, leaving him tongue tied again. "So. It seems you and Hawke are getting along well."

"Isn't that the point?" he said brusquely, thankful she hadn't noticed the friction with Hawke.

"And your social charms are coming along, too," she said, pursing her lips ironically. "That must be Hawke's influence."

"What do you want?"

"What we all want, Cullen," she said in a voice suddenly full of steel. "An end to the war. You are in her circle now, but your job is far from over. Do not let a pretty dress distract you from your mission. And your freedom."

He cursed himself that even the Orlesian could see his unhealthy fixation on Hawke. "I've done what you asked," he said sullenly, unable to look her in the eye. "It's up to Hawke now."

"No, you must now ensure she convinces all parties to come to the peace table. Alistair is a sensible choice as host. He is a good person, universally liked and not generally considered a threat. You will need to move quickly to invite the others. I am told the templars are basing themselves in Jainen. And the mage leadership has been rumored near West Hill. I will feed this information to your friend Varric's associates so he may inform Hawke."

Although Cullen was no stranger to following orders, he chafed at her tugging his puppet strings. He might have escaped his cell, but he was still her prisoner. "If you know all these people so well, why aren't you doing this yourself?"

"It is as I have told you. We cannot have the Divine implicated in this. Not this time."

"So the rumors are true then? She did side with the mages at the White Spire."

She sighed. "Justinia seeks a real, workable solution for the mages in Thedas. Some of her activities recently have been discovered, causing the Seekers to withdraw their support from the Chantry. Now more than ever it is imperative that we work through intermediaries like you, Cullen."

Hearing it confirmed by an agent of the Chantry suddenly made it all too real. Most Holy Justinia, Fifth of Her Name, Heir to the Sunburst Throne, Exalted Servant of the Maker, had sided against her own knights and effectively upended the centuries old institutions that stood at the core of his duty.

His stomach clenched in a feeling strangely like betrayal. _I have no duty. I am not a templar. This is not my problem,_ he tried to convince himself _._

_Not a templar . . ._

"May I cut in?" a hard voice suddenly interrupted. It seemed Hawke had finally settled on a reaction, and her mouth was drawn down in a thin line.

"Just when we were getting to know each other better," Leliana purred in disappointment. "His accomplishments at Kinloch Hold are impressive, no?" If Cullen didn't know it was all an act, he would have said Leliana sounded besotted.

"I hope you're not trying to swipe my templar from under my nose. He doesn't work for you anymore," Hawke said.

"People cannot be stolen, as well you know." Hawke paled behind her mask and Cullen's anger flared that the sister would remind Hawke of her capture, however unknowingly.

"The Maker has given us all free will," Leliana continued, "in the hope that we will exercise it wisely. Your friend Cullen has some interesting choices to make with his future. I wonder how it must feel to have such freedom lie before you. I must say, I will be watching with some interest." She looked him in eye, her message clear, his reward dangling just beyond his reach. "Champion," she said with a nod at Hawke before disappearing into the colorful sea of dancers.

A stately waltz began to play and so he dutifully reached for Hawke, placing a hand on her waist. She stiffened and flinched away. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

He frowned. "I thought you wanted to dance."

"I don't dance." He just caught an intriguing flash of panic in her eyes before she settled back into a scowl.

"Then why . . .?"

"I thought I was saving you from an awkward situation." Her chin jutted out belligerently. "But if you would rather go dance with that . . . that woman, then be my guest." She spun to leave and the abrupt move caused her foot to slip out from under her. He quickly grabbed her arm before she could fall.

Her eyes darted to his hand on her arm and there it was again. The panic was back. He almost smiled. "Marian Hawke, may I have this dance before you tumble to the ground and embarrass yourself?"

She glared at him. "I don't dance," she hissed.

"That much is clear, Grace," he said, chuckling and slipping an arm around her waist. She stiffened in his arms. "Trust me."

"Where have I heard that before?" she muttered, but she didn't move away again. He tightened his arm around her, took her hand in his, and started the movements of the dance.

Cullen was far from the best dancer but he had always been a strong lead. His mother had made sure of that. Hawke tried to follow, her steps stiff and calculated, her spine rigid under his hand, and she couldn't stop looking down at her feet.

"Relax," he whispered in her ear, earning himself another glare. He grinned to himself over her shoulder, settling in to enjoy her discomfort. "Don't watch your feet, watch me."

She glared at him again, so he pulled her closer to his chest, enveloping her in his arms. She resisted the close embrace at first, holding her shoulders away and craning her neck to see her toes. Each time he would patiently draw her eyes back to him while instructing her movements with the subtle pressure of his hands and the turn of his body. It took several turns around the dance floor before she started to relax and trust his lead, listening only to his physical signals. With her slim figure pressed fully to his, finally they began to move as one, their bodies communicating through touch alone.

 _Not unlike at the pond_ , he thought with a rush of heat. He held her closer still and delighted at the rapid fire of her heartbeat against his.

He should worry at how easily his resolve crumbled, but he couldn't bring himself to regret the feel of her in his arms again. He had longed to get close to her all night—or if he was being honest with himself, every night since he had kissed her. Even if it was a terrible, terrible idea. He smiled down at her and decided to enjoy the moment.

ooXXoo

Hawke had no time to second-guess her rash decision to dance because it was all she could do to keep up with Cullen, while reminding herself to breathe and not watch her feet. The foolish heels on her shoes finally made sense as she tried to stay on her toes. She had only stepped on Cullen's feet twice so far.

_Damn it._

_Make that three times._

She concentrated on learning to follow Cullen's lead now that he had stopped whispering breathy taunts in her ear that shivered down her spine.

_One-two-three. One-two-three. Breathe. One-two-three._

With more patience than she would have expected, he wordlessly guided her through the steps, his hand splayed against the flushed skin of her back. The warm pressure of his fingertips, the shifting of his weight, the turn of his hips against hers, all became an unspoken, highly stimulating choreography of movement across the floor. Her attention narrowed to just the close press of his body as she anticipated his cues and blocked out the stirring parallels with their last encounter.

_One-two-three. One-two-three_

No longer watching her feet, she locked onto his masked face, now so close to hers. Her pulse drummed loudly in her ears, drowning out the music so that her only gauge of timing was him. The rhythm of his step, the beat of his heart. She fixed on the command in his golden eyes and obeyed instinctively, her body answering every subtle shift and nuance in his.

_One-two-three. Breathe._

Unexpectedly, he smiled at her. Not his usual lopsided smirk where the right-hand corner of his mouth pulled slightly higher, like it did when he mocked her, like it had all night so far. Instead, both sides curved up softly in approval.

_Breathe. One-two-three. Breathe._

She drifted closer, caught in the thrall of that smile, her heart fluttering in apprehension. Just one step would close the distance. She slowly raised up on her toes, leaning in, and took that step. And fell.

"Damn it," she said out loud.

He caught her easily when she stumbled. "Easy, Grace," he said, chuckling and disentangling her feet from his. He set her back on her feet, spinning her once in place and turning her misstep into a flourish.

The right-hand corner of his mouth hitched up in amusement at her expense. She ground her teeth. At least, he seemed unaware that she had almost kissed him again.

_Damn it._

She ducked her head and forced herself to think only about the steps, while trying to regain her composure and her pride.

_One-two-three. Turn-two-three. Breathe._

In spite of what he might say about her, she was a naturally graceful person and so eventually the steps became more natural and his steadying grip less necessary, although he still held her close.

She was relieved when she could stop looking at him and instead scan the room and the spinning couples who miraculously avoided crashing into one another. Cullen took her hand and spun her in a circle, her green skirts swirling around her, before taking her surely in hand again without a missing a step, pulling her back against his broad chest.

"Nicely done, Grace," he murmured without even sounding ironic. He smiled down at her, another of those rare, natural smiles, and for a brief moment the detestable nickname almost sounded like an endearment. Her pulse sped up.

_Breathe. Damn it._

In spite of the praise, she reminded herself that she couldn't trust him not to drop her again. All he had given her recently were mixed signals: the mocking gibes, the accusatory silence, the heated glances. Why should today be any different?

 _One-two-three_.

"Shouldn't ballroom dancing be second nature for a daughter of the nobility?" he asked, smirking.

It was several moments before she felt confident enough to speak and dance at the same time. "I wasn't born into the nobility, you know."

 _One-two-three_.

"But your mother was an Amell."

"And my father was an apostate pretending to be a farmer. Not much call for dancing skills in a backwater like Lothering."

Unaccountably, he frowned at this. "Even small town folk dance, Hawke. They're not savages."

"I didn't mean . . . We just never did that. Fugitives looking to blend in don't flaunt their noble roots, so I never learned."

"I think being unable to dance is more the anomaly."

"Why? Where did you learn to dance?"

"I was taught from an early age. Every gentleman learns how to dance, whatever his station."

She snorted. "Who told you that? Your templar finishing school?"

"No. My mother."

"Oh," was all she could say. Her gaze dropped back to her feet.

_One-two-three. One-two-three. Breathe._

"She was Fereldan, your mother?" she asked, trying to find some neutral ground.

"She was," he said curtly. His expression had closed off again and a muscle jumped in his jaw. Everything she said seemed to set him off.

 _Why even bother? You're not speaking to him anyway_ , she reminded herself.

_One-two-three. Turn-two-three._

"S-so, you met Sister Nightingale at the Tower in Ferelden?" she found herself asking. "Leliana, I mean."

"Apparently," he muttered.

"You don't remember?"

He shook his head. "I'd been confined in that cage for so long at the point when Solona came to free the Tower. All I remember is her. Thinking she was another vision sent to torment me."

No wonder he didn't want to talk about Solona Amell. "You had visions of her?"

"The demons, they dug into every sinful thought I'd ever had and exploited them. Eventually I couldn't tell what was real anymore."

"But, why her?"

He licked his lower lip. "Um, well. It was one of the ways they tried to break me. Through my, um, impure desires."

"I thought it was just a crush," she said, hating how catty she sounded. When he didn't respond, she added, "Besides, desire itself isn't impure."

"It is for a templar. Temptation conflicts with duty."

"Oh, more _wicked temptations_?" she said, her bitterness seeping out of its own accord.

_One-two-three. Breathe. One-two-three._

His eyes became distant, picturing another time, another woman. "Yes."

Her anger rekindled. "So I was just another of these wicked temptations, then?"

"What?" he said, his brow crinkling in puzzlement as he came back to her.

 _Breathe. One-two . . ._ "Damn it." She stepped on his foot as she started to lose the rhythm of the dance. He grimaced and tried to recover by taking her hand and spinning her out in a circle.

When he pulled her back in, she stepped on his foot again. "Careful, Grace," he warned, his hand again pressing firmly against the small of her back.

"Is that why you so rudely rejected me?"

"Why I—?" His jaw dropped and then promptly snapped closed. "This is neither the time nor the place to discuss that," he said in a low growl.

"And you get to decide what is the appropriate time and place?" she snapped, pushing away from him altogether.

He glanced self-consciously around them at the nearby couples who observed their spat with curious disdain. "In this case, yes." He grabbed her arm and tried to lead her off the dance floor.

She yanked her arm out of his grip just as Varric walked up to them. The dwarf nodded amiably to a sour-looking old woman in purple who frowned down her nose at them.

"Ahem," Varric said discretely. "While Templar was abandoning his watch, our opening has presented itself." Varric jerked his head toward a raised dais where the king and his retinue watched the dancing from behind an elegant marble balustrade. The crowd around the monarch had dispersed with just a few stragglers being admitted by his over-attentive body guards. "Fenris and Merrill will keep an eye on our exits. Meanwhile, it's show time."

Hawke took a deep breath and then another. The hot flush in her cheeks started to cool along with her temper. She felt Cullen watching her, like he always did, but she focused instead on the blond head of the King above the bob and sway of dancers. "Show time," she said while promising herself that her discussion with Cullen was far from over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Ch 14: Collaboration. We find out if Hawke's gamble in approaching Alistair pays off, and Hawke and Cullen finally have their Come to Andraste moment. Thanks for reading!


	14. Collaboration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke finally talks to King Alistair and puts their risky plan into motion, meanwhile her relationship with Cullen just keeps getting more complicated (and yes, they finally have the Come to Andraste talk).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thank you to my beta for her very quick review of this chapter so I could get it in under the wire for Cullen Positivity Week. :) Also thanks to Gaspode5 on deviantart for the suggestion that an interaction between Cullen and Alistair could prove very insightful. I hope I did it justice. :D

_Royal Palace_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

Hawke ignored the angry mutterings in her wake as she bumped into yet another dancing couple in her retreat from the crowded ballroom floor. At her elbow, Cullen growled something at her that she also ignored. Something that ended with him unflatteringly calling her Grace again.

"Don't call me that," she said, avoiding even looking at him. Varric wisely remained silent.

It was childish to quarrel in the middle of their mission--in the middle of the dance floor no less--but that didn't stop her from mentally playing out some other choice complaints to fling angrily at Cullen. She shivered at the loss of his body heat and cursed him for making her dance with him. And, making her enjoy it. And making her almost want to kiss him again.

The trio soon broke free of the dancers and the disapproving stares. Once Hawke had a clear view of the King she understood why his crowd of well-wishers had thinned. He had just stepped off the dais and was moving in the direction of a discrete side exit. They sped up to catch him before he was gone, with Varric in the lead.

When they were close enough, Varric removed his mask and said in a voice that carried, "Alistair! My friend!" Two helmeted guards immediately blocked his path, and one put a quelling hand on Varric's shoulder. "Alistair!" Varric repeated, and finally the King glanced up.

Up close and unmasked, King Alistair looked almost identical to the last time Hawke had seen him back in Kirkwall. Blond, handsome, he had a twinkle in his eye that the years of rulership couldn't diminish. Alistair frowned at Varric. "Wait, no, let him come," he grudgingly instructed the guards, who slowly stepped out of Varric's way. Varric, Hawke and Cullen moved closer while the guards watched them carefully.

"Alistair, fancy seeing you here," Varric said, smiling.

Alistair looked at Varric somewhat distastefully. "Hmm, you."

"Yes, me," Varric agreed cheerily.

"Interesting that I didn't see your name on the guest list, Varric."

"Oh, I'm sure it must have been there somewhere," Varric said with a vague wave of his hand. "Besides, how could I pass through Denerim without congratulating you on your new addition?"

"Erm, thank you. I think. And, is the lovely Pirate Queen Isabela here thwarting my security precautions as well?" Alistair smiled like this was a normal occurrence at his parties.

"She sends her congratulations," Varric lied. "And her regrets. Too much pirating to be done, apparently."

"Yes, of course." Alistair paused for a moment, eyes bouncing between the three of them. "Well. Lovely catching up then," he said in parting and turned again to go.

"Alistair, wait, ten minutes of your time," Varric called out in a rush.

Alistair turned back around slowly, his bland expression revealing his utter lack of surprise that they wanted something further. While he paused for a minute in polite hesitation, Leliana swept up to them, wending her way to Alistair's side.

"Alistair, what a lovely party. Congratulations!" Leliana trilled with a smile and dropped a kiss on Alistair's cheek.

"Ah, Leliana." He looked around suspiciously. "How is the spy business these days? Should I be watching my back?"

"As you well know, Alistair, any bard worthy of the name will be in full view. Not behind your back."

Alistair smiled blandly. "And, dear old Justinia?" he continued with the small talk, "I hear she has really stepped in it this time, with all that templar business."

"Justinia is well. Thank you _so_ much for asking." Leliana gave him a mechanical smile and then nodded a greeting at Hawke. "Champion."

"Champion?" Alistair glowered at Hawke suspiciously. "Who exactly are you people?" he demanded

Hawke reluctantly removed her mask. "Your Majesty." To Leliana, she said, "Sister Nightingale . . . or should we just call you Leliana now. It's so hard to keep track."

"We all have our masks to wear, no?" Leliana motioned toward Hawke's mask in her hand. Without looking away from Hawke, Leliana said, "So, Alistair, I am not sure if you have met Marian Hawke, the--"

"The Champion of Kirkwall. Yes, we've met," Alistair said blithely. "I certainly would have remembered _your_ name on the guest list, Hawke. You've made yourself rather scarce these past few years. So many well-wishers wanting to thank you for toppling the world into chaos. But, alas, no forwarding address." While the King's words were playful, there was steel in his eyes. It would be a mistake to underestimate this man from his joking.

"Please your majesty, we're trying to help set everything to rights. We just need ten minutes. Please."

"Why do I get the feeling that I'm not going to like the sound of this?"

"Now Alistair, we must all play our part to bring peace to Thedas," Leliana chided. "If the Champion has a plan, you should hear her out."

He looked at Leliana sourly. "Then why isn't the Divine throwing her pomp and circumstance behind a solution?"

"Because for any plan to succeed," she said, idly adjusting the royal blue mantle around Alistair's shoulders like this was something anyone might do with the King of Ferelden, "Justinia is the last person you want involved. She must remain neutral now more than ever." She stepped back. "You know how these things work, Alistair," she added more quietly.

He swallowed and then looked away. "Have . . . have you seen Solona recently?" He looked back at her, attempting to look disinterested in the answer, but the sudden intensity in his eyes told a different story.

"No. Not for some time." Leliana paused before asking, "And, the Queen? She is well?"

"Oh. Yes. Yes. Of course." Alistair clasped his hands behind his back. "Elissa is quite well. You know. Baby and all."

"I am glad to hear it." Leliana smiled, only a quick tightening of her lips, but it was perhaps her most genuine expression of the evening.

Hawke held her breath during the awkward exchange. Everyone had heard the rumors, but she only now recognized that they must be true. Tales of an honorable man pushed onto the throne and into an arranged marriage for the good of his country, all orchestrated by his lover who refused to be a royal mistress. The stuff of heroic legend until you witnessed the broken hearts at its center.

Hawke shot a glance at Cullen, but if he had a reaction to the mention of Solona Amell, he hid it well.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Leliana murmured. She touched Alistair's cheek with genuine tenderness and then announced, "Dear, dear Alistair! Congratulations again!" She smiled broadly and sauntered off.

Alistair sighed and watched her walk away with an annoyed grimace. "Why is it always a bad sign when she shows up anymore? Shame." He squared his shoulders and turned back to Varric and Hawke. "Well. I suppose I can spare ten minutes. This way." Alistair motioned for them to follow, but when Cullen also moved to follow, the King said, "Your bodyguard is hardly necessary."

Cullen bristled but Hawke stepped forward and patted Cullen's arm. "Erm, yes, Your Majesty, he is," she said without otherwise correcting the King. Cullen gave her a dirty look to which she just smiled in a quick flash of teeth.

ooXXoo

Alistair ushered them down a short hallway and into a small sitting room with gilded window panes that looked out onto the central courtyard of the palace. Cullen was the last to enter, noting that two guards stationed themselves inside the room in discreet corners while several more remained outside the door, outnumbering them if it came to an armed disagreement. Not that their group was armed.

_Well, except for Hawke, anyway_ , he reminded himself, wherever she had hidden her blade. Cullen pulled his gaze away from the secrets of that green dress and positioned himself near the door, trying instead to decide which of the guards it would be easiest to disarm first. Just in case.

As soon as the King stepped into the room, he rounded on them and crossed his arms. With no need to charm the masses any longer, Alistair had dropped his vague smile in favor of a more skeptical frown. Cullen could almost hear their ten minutes slipping away.

"So. Despite Leliana's protestations, it seems she, the Divine, and apparently you," he said to Hawke, "are expecting me to help you stop a war. Does that about sum it up?"

"It does. We want you to host peace talks between the mages and the templars. Here in Ferelden," Hawke said bluntly and then waited for a reaction. They didn't have to wait long.

The fact that Alistair hadn't grown up around politics was apparent in the honest play of his emotions across his face. Amusement, followed by confusion, and then disbelief. "You're serious, aren't you?" he finally concluded.

"Deadly. With the Divine feeling her hands are tied on this matter, it will require a neutral location and host. We can think of none better than you, Your Majesty. You've been friend to mage and templar alike. Ferelden is a natural site for such a historic meeting. If this works, peace would be quite the legacy to leave to your son." They had brainstormed various arguments the night before, and appealing to Alistair as a father had been Varric's idea. Cullen hoped it hadn't been a miscalculation as Alistair's frown deepened.

"All right, let's leave my son out of this for now, since he doesn't get a vote just yet." He paced away and then back. "My neutrality on the mages after the Blight hasn't made me many friends amongst the templars. Taken together with my convenient desertion to the Grey Wardens before taking my templar vows, I may not be at the top of their Satinalia gift list."

"On the contrary, Your Majesty, there are many in the Order who see you as one of our own," Cullen said suddenly, clamping his mouth shut at the end as he realized that he automatically had included himself in that sentence. Barreling on, he added, "You understand the Order's position. Its principles. Its secrets."

"That was long ago."

Cullen licked his lower lip. "Once a templar, always a templar," he added softly, bracing himself for the familiar ache as those words echoed hollowly in his chest.

Alistair turned toward him, narrowing his eyes as he really looked at Cullen for the first time. "Oh, I'm sure that's what the Chantry would like us to think. But, people do quit that line of work and move on with their lives. Or do you disagree, templar?"

Cullen clenched his jaw and stood a little straighter at the challenge. A flood of protests rose to his tongue, wanting to convince the King that being a templar was not a job but a calling, while the doubting whisper in the back of his mind played counterpoint.

_Not a templar . . ._

"I don't know any more," he found himself admitting.

Alistair nodded slowly, his expression softening in understanding. "Of course, the training always comes in handy when demons and blood mages are around," he said, smirking, "but who I am now is more important than who I was." He gave Cullen another searching look. "So then, just _who_ are _you_? Templar bodyguard?" He glanced briefly at Hawke for confirmation.

"I am. . ." Cullen started and then coughed as his throat suddenly went dry on his response.

Hawke touched her hand to his arm. "Allow me to introduce Cullen, former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall," she said, blinking expectantly at Cullen.

"Oh," Cullen said, finally remembering the mask, which he promptly removed. He nodded respectfully toward the King. "Ser."

"I see. So somewhat more than a bodyguard. Knight-Captain, eh?" Alistair mused. "As I recall, Viscount Bran told me Kirkwall's Knight-Captain received much of the blame for the mage insurgency there. And much of the punishment when the insurgents escaped."

Hawke glanced anxiously again at Cullen, biting her lower lip hard like she was physically trying to stop herself from speaking up. Whether to defend him or herself, he wasn't sure, but then, he was hardly sure it mattered anymore. The well of his bitterness had finally run dry, leaving only regret.

"There are many who paid for what happened that day," he said evenly.

"Very diplomatic, captain, given your present company," Alistair said. "Perhaps you are moving on as well."

_Not a templar . . ._

"Your majesty," Hawke said quickly, saving Cullen the need to reply. "Your position outside the Chantry is precisely what might bring everyone to the table. A secular gathering of you and the other heads of state, focused on the good of Thedas as a whole, could increase our chance of success."

Alistair turned back to Hawke and slowly nodded. "You could be onto something. I wonder if we should pull in some of the others who are here, then. Having a broader base of support could also increase our chance of success."

"And spread around the blame," muttered Varric.

Alistair broke into a lopsided smile. "That doesn't hurt, either. Well, Hawke, I'm not promising anything, but you've officially piqued my interest."

He pulled on a discreet cable and soon an elven servant appeared at the door. "Send for the Chancellor and ask the Queen to join us in the council chamber. Oh, and grab Teagan as well, while you're at it." The servant nodded and ran off.

"I suppose," Alistair continued, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "we could include the Orlesians, some of the ambassadors, the Teryn of Ostwick, that Pentaghast chap, Sebastian." He glanced at Hawke and added, "Unless you would rather invite Sebastian yourself, since I assume that was your entree to my party."

Hawke's face went blank for a moment at being caught in her subterfuge, but then she just shook her head and smiled. "No, I think I'll leave this to more official channels now. Subtlety isn't exactly my style."

Alistair gave a bark of laughter. "I appreciate an honest woman, Hawke. Let's adjourn to the council chamber and wait for the others to join us. Your friends can wait here while we talk through the details." He started toward the door.

"But, Your Majesty, I'm no diplomat. Surely you will have an easier time of it without a notorious fugitive in your midst."

"Oh ho ho, no. On the contrary, if you think you can get out of it that easily, then you're sorely mistaken. You started all of this. We can be as official and diplomatic as we like, but we'll need someone to do the dirty work and coax the mages and the templars into the same room. I think that someone is you, Hawke, whether you like it or not."

"If you think it will help," she said uncertainly, pretending like that hadn't been her plan all along, "then of course. Now, dirty work, that actually is my style." She shared a grin with the King.

"Excellent. Then, when you're ready, Hawke," Alistair said and started out of the room.

She moved to follow the King, pausing next to Varric and Cullen. In a low voice, she said, "Gather up Merrill and Fenris and wait for me here. I don't know how long this will take."

Varric inclined his head in affirmation and murmured, "Here goes nothing."

"Here goes everything," Hawke corrected.

Cullen grabbed her arm before she could leave, pulling her face close to his so he couldn't be overheard. "Be careful, Hawke," he said. "Don't let them take more than you can give."

She gave him a long look, green eyes searching his, and the room seemed to quiet for the span of a stuttered breath. She drew imperceptibly closer before she shuddered and yanked her arm out of his grasp. "I'll be fine," she said from between clenched teeth. Then she was gone, striding from the room.

Varric rolled his eyes. "We need to lock you two in a room and let you work whatever this is out of your systems."

Cullen glared at him. "Mind your own business, dwarf," he spat, and tramped off toward the window to begin their long wait.

Cullen and Fenris took turns pacing across the room for next several hours, while Varric and Merrill sat in two overstuffed chairs and played some card game that involved periodic knocks on the table between them and giggles from the elf. Cullen couldn't understand how they could be so relaxed as he took another turn toward the door, narrowly missing Fenris who scowled at him.

It was well past midnight when Hawke finally opened the door to the sitting room. Merrill was curled up asleep in one chair and Varric and Fenris were hunched over a game of Diamondback. Cullen turned from where he had taken to watching the night sky wheel above the rooftops of Denerim.

Hawke smiled tiredly at them. "It's done," she declared. "The parlay will be held at Fort Drakon here in Denerim. Something about holding another event of worldwide significance there appealed to them." She crossed the room and flopped down into an unoccupied chair.

"Clever," Varric said, chuckling.

Merrill yawned as she awakened. "What's clever?"

"Convening the peace talks at Fort Drakon," Varric explained. "It's a chance for Ferelden to remind everyone how they dealt with the Fifth Blight all on their own."

"Oh," Merrill said. "But wasn't that fortress mostly destroyed along with the Archdemon?"

"It's a national monument now, Daisy. It was rebuilt along with the rest of Denerim."

"So now what?" Cullen asked Hawke.

"We're to carry the formal invitations bearing the seals of the hosts. So far, Ferelden, Nevarra, Ostwick, Starkhaven, are in. The Orlesians have to work it out somehow between Celene and her challenger, Duke Gaspard. Something complicated and . . . Orlesian." Hawke shrugged. "We'll have the documents in a few days. Plus . . ." She yawned and stretched. "We will have a ship to take us, so no more sweating on horseback."

"Oh, templar will love that," Varric said, glancing slyly at Cullen in a subtle jab at how he did not travel well by sea. Cullen didn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction, but inwardly quailed.

"Now we just have to figure out where to go!" Hawke said with faux cheer, her smile immediately falling into a worried frown. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I assured them we could find both the templars and the mage leadership, Varric. Please tell me we can."

"Piece of cake, Hawke," he replied, sounding more assured than he appeared.

"Why does that phrase no longer fill me with confidence, dwarf," Cullen commented, knowing full well that Leliana's spy network would ensure they knew where to go next.

"Varric will come through," Hawke retorted, setting her jaw.

"I'm sure you're right," he said carefully trying not to add more friction to tempers that were already frayed.

Hawke grunted and looked away. "Anyway. Alistair offered us accommodations here in the palace. I suspect it's so that we're at his beck and call during the arrangements, but I took the liberty of accepting anyway. We deserve real beds for at least a few days."

Merrill's lower lip drew down in uncertainty, so Hawke said, "Merrill, it's just for a few days. You let me know if anyone gives you trouble."

"All right, Hawke," she said, still looking unconvinced.

Hawke yawned again. "I suggest we retrieve our belongings tomorrow, and catch a few hours of rest now. I think we're going to need it."

ooXXoo

_Denerim Chantry_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

"The one who repents shall know true peace. Confess before the Maker and be absolved of your sin."

The disembodied voice floated from the other side of the elaborately painted confessional screen, its gilded illumination of Andraste's ascension probably a gift from a wealthy Denerim noble. The calm voice washed over Cullen like forgiveness itself and the muscles in his back relaxed for the first time in weeks. The dim interior of the confessional box blocked out the chaos of the city and cloaked him again in comforting anonymity. He hadn't expected to feel so exposed without his long hair and beard, and the prying eyes he'd felt since arriving in Denerim made it worse. He took a deep breath and focused his disordered thoughts.

Things had moved quickly in the days since their meeting with Alistair. While the King made preparations for the parlay, meeting with as many visiting dignitaries as he could enlist, Varric exhausted his network to find out where the companions were headed next. It had only taken a few days before the dwarf reported that the templar leadership, including the Lord Seeker himself, had recently arrived at the small Circle Tower at the coast in Jainen. Shortly thereafter, Varric also uncovered whispers that the mage underground was near West Hill. Cullen had kept his mouth shut, merely nodding in agreement with everyone else about their good fortune.

Staying at the royal palace had been an adjustment for them all after months spent sleeping on the ground together. The privacy of an individual room was a luxury Cullen hadn't realized he missed from his days of solitary confinement. Hawke, on the other hand, was constantly being pulled into Alistair's meetings. Cullen had been included a few times as well to talk templar strategy. But he was sure everyone in attendance was wondering the same thing he was: what possible help could he provide?

His knowledge of the inner workings of the Order was three years old. Everything had changed in the meantime. Templars no longer served the Chantry and now purged all mages they encountered. The Circle leadership had changed, along with a new Lord Seeker. The thread of truth in his arguments to Hawke about his integral part in bringing the templars to the table now just felt like another lie. He barely recognized what the Order had become, and so could offer little insight into how this new Lord Seeker, Colin Marchand, might view their proposal aside from what Prince Vael had shared with them.

Cullen didn't have time to feel useless, however. While Hawke treated with heads of state and Varric schmoozed his way through Denerim's underbelly, the rest of them alternately ran errands in preparation for the next leg of their journey or twiddled their thumbs waiting to get underway. Or at least, Merrill and Fenris would wait. Whenever Cullen had a spare moment when he might retreat to the Chantry at last, Hawke would appear and give him another task. This was always coupled with a disapproving scowl that assured him that, yes, he was still being punished.

Nevertheless, he followed Hawke's orders without complaint in the hope that a show of penance would eventually put him back in her good graces. For his own sake, he could now admit, not just the sake of the mission. Her continuing anger was harder for him to bear than he had expected, particularly since the others also spoke to him less in order to avoid drawing Hawke's ire down on themselves.

Thankfully they had finally received the sealed documents they needed and were cleared to sail with the next morning's tide, making this their last day in Denerim. That also meant it was Cullen's last chance to report in at the Chantry before heading back into unknown territory.

He had woken early in the hope that he could return before Hawke even noticed. A city as large as Denerim never slept, so there were already parishioners dotting the pews and visiting the confessional when he arrived.

Denerim's Chantry was much as he remembered it from his childhood. Far larger than any other chantry in Ferelden, it had escaped the Fifth Blight mostly unscathed. The nave towered overhead, drawing the eye naturally to the clerestory windows and their stained glass depiction of Andraste's trials, a copy of the original in Val Royeaux they said.

He took a deep breath and then a second. "Bless me, sister, for I have sinned," he started. His hastily scrawled note to Cassandra lay in his lap for the time being, since he had finally learned his lesson to put off invoking the Seeker password until after his confession. Particularly today, he needed to unburden himself and confession alone might not even be enough.

His soul felt blackened with deceit and these strange new feelings he had for Hawke were inevitably tainted as well. What he didn't understand were his reasons for acting on them at the pond that day. Of course he found her desirable. He could at least admit that to himself. But the total lack of restraint was unlike him. Or was it? He sighed. He didn't even know any more.

"But in the end you did show restraint, my son," came the muffled reply to his extremely simplified explanation of what had happened. "Showing that perhaps you have greater esteem for this individual than you say."

"Of course I hold her in great esteem! She's . . . She's . . ." He was at a loss for words, unable to describe his peculiar preoccupation with Marian Hawke. "She's simply astonishing. I've never met anyone like her." Which, sadly, was true. Compared to his idyllic remembrances of Solona, Hawke was not just heroic and skilled, she was also flawed and vulnerable. Brave, in spite of her insecurities and fears. Perhaps even because of them.

"Then could it be that you actually care for her, and this was not just an act of base lust?"

"I-I-I don't . . . No, th-that's impossible." _Unthinkable_. His pulse beat loudly in his ears. That would be the worst of all possible outcomes. No friendship could survive their foundation of lies, let alone any deeper attachment.

"Perhaps you should--" the sister continued.

"Th-the dark star rises in the east, but the Light shall endure," he blurted, rashly interrupting her."

She paused. "I beg your pardon?"

"The dark star rises in the east, but the Light shall endure," he repeated. He slipped the message alongside the edge of the screen and it was snatched from his hand.

"I see." She sighed. "Rest at the Maker's hand and be Forgiven. Andraste's grace be with you." She promptly stood up, her starched robes rustling, and exited the confessional.

Cullen rested his head for a moment against the screen, trying to extend this moment of peace for a moment longer, when suddenly there was another swish of the curtain and a new figure flounced into the box, sitting down beyond the screen.

"Hello?" he asked uncertainly.

"I don't think it's Andraste's forgiveness you should be asking for!" hissed a low, familiar voice. His heart beat faster and cold panic flashed through him.

_What was she doing here?_

"Hawke! Maker above, what do you think you are doing? You cannot come into the confessional--"

"On the contrary, this seems to me the perfect place for a private talk at last, Templar."

He slid the screen back to see Hawke glaring daggers at him. "This is an inappropriate use of a sacred space," he whispered loudly, jabbing an accusatory finger at her. "You profane the confessional and its good works. If you want to talk, we can go back to the palace or the tavern or wherever. But this is not a topic for this holy place."

"But what better place to discuss your Andrastian hypocrisy? How dare you make me ashamed of my attraction to you! You said yourself, there are no restrictions on your personal involvements now that you're not a templar. So, you can't blame the Chantry. That was all you."

"I don't blame the Chantry."

"Oh, so you blame me? And my _wicked temptations_? Is that it?"

"I . . . I apologize," he mumbled, suddenly unable to look her in the eye. "I shouldn't have said that. I don't blame you either."

"Well then?"

"Hawke, what do you expect me to say? I blame myself, of course! And my own weakness. I should have been better able to control my impure urges. I beg your forgiveness."

"Impure? Are you saying that kissing me was some kind of dirty act?"

"No, I didn't mean-- Stop putting words into my mouth!" Her eyes flicked for an instant to his lips, making him flush. "What I meant," he continued, "was that I regret my loss of self-control. As you well know, my experiences have been very limited for the better part of three years. My experiences with women, for even longer. I am ashamed to have lost control of my desires like that."

"So I was just a warm body that unfortunately triggered your latent humanity?" The way her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled in agitation reminded him of that day and just how warm her body had been to his touch.

He passed a trembling hand across his eyes. "Hawke, what do you want from me?" he asked in a strangled voice. "All right, you're not just a warm body. You're . . . You're a very desirable one. There. Are you satisfied? I find you very attractive. I always have. What happened was nevertheless regrettable. I was rude and ungentlemanly and it won't happen again. I'm certain it's something we both would rather put behind us."

Her mouth thinned and she looked annoyed again. "Yes, rude. And ungentlemanly. And ungrateful. A-and mean! You left me on my ass. In the mud. That's not how you treat a friend, let alone someone who . . . who . . ." She clamped down her lips again.

"I know. I'm sorry. Please believe me when I say that it won't happen again."

"Oh? Which part, exactly?"

He gaped at her. "Which--? Why, all of it! Sweet blood of Andraste, Hawke, I respect you too much to let a moment's ill-advised dalliance ruin our . . . our collaboration."

She searched his face as she mulled over his words, no doubt looking for some implied insult. "Is that what we were doing? Collaborating?" Something in the way she said the last word made his face start to flame again.

He stammered something incoherent. _How can she still have this effect on me?_

The light in her face dimmed. "Well, see that it doesn't happen again. There's too much riding on us and our collaboration," she said in a hard voice and then ducked out through the curtain.

He exhaled loudly, unsure if things had improved with Hawke or not. He knelt down and murmured more prayers to Andraste, closing his eyes and opening himself to Her grace. But the unsettled feeling still gnawed at his stomach.

Finally, he abandoned the safety of the confessional. He stepped out into the aisle and his gaze drew automatically to the statue of Andraste over the dais where she offered sanctuary to all with her outstretched arms. Her blank eyes glowed with the reflected light of the pool of candles at Her feet. He approached the dais and watched the candles' mesmerizing flicker for several minutes, trying to gather what solace he could before turning to go.

He glanced briefly at a small chapel to his right as he passed by and stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of a familiar figure perched uncertainly on the first shadowy pew. Even with her head bowed and the curtain of her mahogany hair obscuring her face, he would now recognize her anywhere. He took a few steps closer, curiosity getting the better of him.

This area of the Chantry was completely deserted except for them. Hawke sat at the end of the first pew with her head bowed over her hands which were interlaced upon her knees. Her lips moved silently almost like she was praying. He had to know what she was saying, so he moved closer still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: things will get more interesting for Cullen and Hawke as they ship out of Denerim and meet another familiar face. Thanks for reading!


	15. Fire Is Her Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Hawke's friendship resumes after their "Come to Andraste" talk. They finally sail from Denerim to seek out the Templars, and a familiar face helps catalyze some long overdue emotional turbulence in the couple's relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, meanie, for giving me some seriously needed advice for this and the subsequent chapter. I've got the next 10-12 chapters mostly written now, thanks for NaNoWriMo, so watch for more frequent updates now and hopefully a looming end to the story. (it's getting so good! eek! I know, I'm not supposed to say that, but I'm really excited about where this story is going right now!)

_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

Cullen stepped quietly to the darkened arch that led into the small chapel where Hawke sat. Her head was still bowed over her clasped hands, so she did not see him. He stood very still and listened hard, ears straining to catch her faint words. Once he recognized a few it was easier, since these were words he knew better than his own name. Better, it seemed, than Hawke.

" _In the Maker's law she shall_ . . . um." Hawke paused and started again.

" _In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know_

 _The peace of the Maker's_ . . . um . . . _benediction_.

" _The Fire,_ uh, _the Light shall lead her safely_

 _Through the paths of this world, and into the next_."

" _For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water."_

" _As the moth sees light and goes toward . . ."_

She spoke the passage from the Chant softly, stumbling from time to time over the words, but then stopped suddenly, her head whipping up to scan the room. When she caught sight of him, she jumped to her feet. Her hands clenched impotently at her sides.

"I didn't realize you knew the Chant," he said mildly, leaning his shoulder against the archway.

She shook her head in automatic denial, but then, she dropped her eyes to the side and mumbled, "Everyone knows the Chant."

He continued to regard her in curiosity. After all her protestations about faith and her lack thereof, he never thought to see her pray, with or without the correct wording.

She crossed an arm across her body and rubbed her hand idly up and down her other arm. "It just seemed like the thing to do in here," she added in a low voice. "For her." She glanced upwards and Cullen followed her gaze to the chapel's distinctive marble figure of Andraste towering over the rows of pews in the tiny chapel.

Cullen knew the statue well. Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, or the Red Lady as she was known in Denerim, was distinctive in several ways. The statue's white marble was streaked with unusual red impurities, and the artist had sculpted it such that the red veins flowed around her robed figure almost like the purifying flames that had taken the prophet's life. Light from the sea of votive candles at her feet flickered across the shiny surface of the marble, catching in the glittering flecks of red and reinforcing the impression.

But the red flames were not the statue's most daring feature. Like in most representations of Andraste, the Red Lady was divinely serene in the face of her own sacrifice, but this one had become a favorite amongst the common folk for its unusual portrayal of other emotions. Despite going to the flame herself, the Lady frowned slightly in benevolent concern for the implied viewer and stretched out her arms like she was comforting you. While art historians applauded the statue's multi-layered portrayal of real human emotion, Chantry purists decried its realism as too common.

"Many have that reaction to the Red Lady," Cullen said.

Hawke's eyes remained on the statue. "Is that what she's called? She's beautiful. For once . . . I feel like Andraste might actually care about me." Hawke laughed, but then her eyes darted to Cullen. "No offense," she added quickly.

He smiled. "None taken."

Hawke continued to study the statue with an expression of quiet wonder, but Cullen watched the woman, enchanted that Hawke would be so affected by a representation of his faith.

"In the Poor Quarter, they've claimed her as their own," he said. " _The Red Lady watches when no one else does_ , they say."

Hawke nodded slowly. "I can see it." Her hand slipped up to twist in a lock of hair at her ear. "Somehow, she makes me feel like everything will be okay."

"Maybe because it will."

"You really think that?" She looked at him, expecting an answer.

"Absolutely," he said without hesitation for once.

She turned back to her contemplation of the statue, so Cullen entered the chapel and joined her. Neither of them said anything for the space of a few minutes as they gazed up at the Red Lady, but the silence was no longer threaded with anger and unspoken words.

Instead, standing there, shoulder to shoulder with Hawke, Cullen knew he had spoken the truth. For the first time in a long time, he felt a strange certainty that everything would turn out as it should. He took a deep breath, free of the tightness that so often clenched around his heart, and relished the fleeting comfort.

Hawke sighed loudly and he looked at her questioningly.

"Cullen, about earlier. I . . . well, I should tell you that I'm sorry for my part in what happened at the pond, too. I should have known better than to create more complications when so much is at stake."

"We both should have known better, so there's nothing to forgive on my side, Hawke. We are only human."

"Some of us, anyway," she retorted playfully, glancing at him sidelong and the tiny dimple at the corner of her mouth made its delightful return. It had been far too long since she had smiled at him like that.

"I deserved that," he admitted with a chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry I reacted so immaturely, Hawke. You deserve to be treated with far more grace. To be perfectly frank, I panicked."

"You don't say?" She grinned, but then got serious, with a small frown forming between her brows. "Even so. I can tell you're still reluctant to trust me. Probably now more than ever. But whatever we are, friends, companions, collaborators, I know I . . ." She swallowed visibly. "Cullen, I can't afford to lose anyone else." She turned to face him and held out her hand. "Friends?" she asked softly.

Panic crackled through him anew. He stared at her extended hand in horror and could only see the danger in her simple offer. Danger to his mission, to his self-control, to his peace of mind.

He could never be her friend. He had nothing to offer her that was true.

He made the mistake of looking her in the eye and saw the fear of another rejection begin to cloud her face. There was also a raw edge to her request that was painful to see, harder to deny. Almost of its own accord, his hand slipped around hers, and she clutched his fingers in a desperate grip.

His mind shouted at him to let go. He held on.

ooXXoo

The next morning, Hawke walked with a spring in her step down the uneven planks of the Denerim pier as they all headed toward the ship Alistair had arranged for them. The solace she had gained from her visit to the Red Lady had stayed with her, like a catch of song or a half-remembered dream, and even references to their last failed attempt to take ship in Gwaren could not dim her good mood. She was actually looking forward to their voyage to Jainen in search of the templars.

They had decided not to send word ahead to the Circle in case the response to their request for an audience with the Lord Seeker was _No_. It was much harder to refuse envoys from the court of Ferelden when they already stood on your doorstep. Or at least she hoped so. For now, Hawke was going to remain optimistic.

The rest of the group all seemed to be looking forward to leaving Denerim as well. Varric had joked that it was about time because the beds at the Palace were too soft, and the others had made similar jokes that only highlighted their restlessness. In three years, it had been too dangerous to stay in one place for so long, and old habits died hard. Even Cullen seemed relieved to be leaving in spite of his apparent uneasiness with sea travel.

Cullen strode at the front of their group, alert as always, but without his usual scowl and vigilant hand on his sword. The stiff tension in his shoulders he had carried since their disagreement was finally gone and he walked with an easy confidence that had been turning heads as they made their way through the crowded streets of Denerim.

As if feeling her eyes on him, Cullen glanced back over his shoulder at her and smiled. It was that warm smile again that crinkled up his eyes at the corners. She smiled in return, pleased that they were back on speaking terms. It had been more draining than she realized to remain angry at him all the time. She was not even annoyed that he had immediately resumed his habit of keeping an eye on her.

 _Friends look out for each other_ , she told herself again, and she needed all the friends she could get. She knew, of course, that this must be the reason behind the little flutter of joy in her stomach every time she caught him watching her.

She started humming and after a moment recognized that it was a crude pirate shanty her friend Isabela had once taught her. Walking beside her, Varric picked it up, too, and started to sing the rather illicit lyrics in his rumbling baritone. Merrill joined in with an impressive descant that elevated the bawdy song to high art as they drew near the large schooner awaiting them at the end of the dock.

"Will you listen to all that caterwauling? That's not how it's sung at all!" came a voice from above them.

A raven-haired pirate jumped down from the rigging to the deck as Merrill cried, "Isabela!"

In the years since Hawke had last seen her, Isabela hadn't changed much. She was dressed in her usual style, wearing tall buccaneer boots and a snug outfit of cool silk that wrapped around her lush figure like a glove. The one departure in style from her days in Kirkwall was the ostentatious captain's hat she wore atop her dark curls, leaving no question as to her authority on this ship.

A ship that just happened to be in Denerim at the same time as they needed one.

"Isabela, what are you doing here?" Hawke demanded.

"I don't even get a hello?"

"Hello, Isabela. What are you doing here?"

"Well, all right then! What do you think? I'm taking you to Jainen."

Hawke could only gape at her, so Isabela laughed, sounding deeply pleased with herself. "Who else would Alistair trust?" she added smugly.

"You've been in touch with Alistair?" Hawke asked with some asperity.

"Sometimes," Isabela said, shrugging one shoulder. "Sometimes it's good to know a King. Just as sometimes it's good to know an impressively talented privateer."

"But . . . why wouldn't he tell us?" Hawke sputtered, including Varric in her accusatory stare.

"Don't look at me!" Varric said, holding his hands wide to indicate his innocence. "No one tells me anything anymore."

Isabela laughed. "Oh, Hawke, allow us our bit of fun. It was my idea to surprise you. It's been ages! And Alistair had some worries about your safety for this little outing." She swept her hat off and bowed. "So please, welcome aboard. All of you."

Hawke's sudden anger abated as quickly as it had flared, turning instead to dejection.

She waited for everyone else to head over the gangplank, while feeling childish that she had snapped at Isabela. The fact that the King of Ferelden apparently had seen her friend more often than she had in the past three years rankled far more than it should.

Isabela greeted each of them in turn as they filed onto the ship, sweeping Merrill off her feet into a spinning hug and punching Varric collegially in the shoulder while he made a show of wincing dramatically. She gave Fenris a slow nod that spoke loudly in its silence, to which he only answered, "Isabela."

Isabela looked Cullen up and down appreciatively and shook her head. "Knight-Captain Cullen. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see if with my own eyes. So many years of wanting to throw Hawke in the brig, and now look at you." Her eyes danced between him and Hawke in a way that made Hawke wonder exactly what Alistair had told the pirate. Hawke felt Cullen tense beside her, but for once he didn't seem compelled to correct his title.

Finally, Isabela turned to Hawke and sighed. "Ah, Hawke." The Rivaini reached out suddenly with two hands and pulled her in for a smacking kiss on the lips. "I missed you."

It had been many years since Hawke had been intimate with Isabela, before Anders, before exile, so the show of affection was just the pirate being purposely unpredictable. Nevertheless, Hawke's hurt feelings appreciated the reminder of their closeness after so many years, however indecorous. "I missed you, too. But you know how I don't like surprises," Hawke grumbled.

"Oh, I know," Isabela replied with a throaty laugh and winked. To the others, she said, "My crew will get us underway soon. Everyone please make yourselves at home. There are plenty of berths below deck." She wrapped her arm around Hawke's waist. "Now Hawke, you're going to catch me up. And you know how I like to be caught up!" Isabela said suggestively and started to lead Hawke toward her cabin.

Hawke allowed herself to be led but just before she followed Isabela through her cabin door, she looked back over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of Cullen glowering behind them.

ooXXoo

Cullen stared for a moment longer at the cabin door that had shut behind Hawke, his mind turning over and over the scene that he had just witnessed without coming to a satisfactory conclusion. _Hawke and . . . Isabela?_

Hawke and Anders he had accepted, along with the understanding that it was all in the past. But this he hadn't expected. He couldn't recall anything from Kirkwall about Hawke being involved with Isabela, but then, he had never been interested in the latest list of names the gossips linked with the Champion of Kirkwall. At least, not until now. He wasn't sure what bothered him more: that he hadn't known, or that it bothered him at all.

Varric pointedly cleared his throat behind him. "So, anyway, let's get you situated, templar."

"I don't need tending, dwarf," Cullen muttered without heat.

"Uh, yeah, okay, right. I assume you won't, erm, want to bunk below deck again. So, why don't we find you an out of the way spot up here before people start asking uncomfortable questions?"

"You don't need to worry about me."

"I don't. But I don't want Hawke to worry, which is why I bother."

"I don't see that she would care," Cullen said before he could stop himself.

Varric gave him a long look, like he was about to say something more, but seemed to think better of it. The dwarf shook his head and started toward the aft of the ship, muttering something under his breath that sounded like _nice padded room_.

"Coming?" Varric prompted when Cullen did not move to follow.

"Apparently so." Cullen grabbed his bedroll and other things and joined Varric.

Eventually they found a place just behind the small captain's cabin in the stern of the ship, out of the wind but under the sky. It was a small span of open deck at the very back of the ship, but it would suffice for the short discomforts of their voyage. Varric gave him a parting nod and left, calling back, "I'll make sure Hawke knows where she can find you."

Cullen let him go without pointing out that Hawke seemed well occupied and instead took a deep breath of sea air in through his nose.

The ship soon got underway and the nimble schooner slipped easily through the blue waves of Denerim harbor. So long as the weather held, he would be fine. If not, he would just have to make do. He glanced up at the ornate carvings jutting out along the edge of the poop deck above him. The upper deck provided a surprising amount of cover from the beating sun. But even if not, well, anything was better than being confined below deck.

He shuddered and redirected his eyes back out to sea, focusing on the static horizon and peaceful roll of the deck below his feet. Yes, he would be fine.

As the sun started to dip below the horizon, Merrill came to find him.

"Here," she said, handing him a basket covered with a simple white cloth. As he looked inside at the hard rolls and smoked meats, she added, "Varric told me to bring you this since you didn't eat with us in the mass or mess or whatever it's called."

"Thank you."

"Are you okay out here? There's plenty of room downstairs, you know," she said, frowning in concern.

"I'm fine."

"But what if it rains? Are you sure you don't—"

"I am fine, Merrill. Please." He set his jaw, hoping that she would just go away and leave him alone.

"Okay," she said uncertainly. "We thought at least you would eat with us." She paused, waiting for him to say something else, but when he didn't, she started to leave.

"Did . . ." he started, but then couldn't help himself. "Did Hawke say anything?"

"Oh, not really. She missed dinner, too."

"I see." He crossed his arms and turned back toward the water. He heard a sigh behind him and then the pad of Merrill's bare feet retreating.

He focused on the slap and froth of the waves churning in their wake. The snap of the Rivaini pennant beating from the stern. The boil of red clouds on the horizon, stained by the dying light of day's end. The moan of the wind tearing through his hair and clothing.

He ground his teeth and dragged his eyes away from where they had been drawn back to the shuttered port holes of the captain's cabin. He was going to need another distraction.

ooXXoo

It had been years since Cullen had practiced his forms, recalling back to his early years of training as a recruit in Ferelden. They could be done with or without a sword, but he decided to work through the precise movements with sword in hand in order to better tire out his body and mind. The key was to always remain in motion, stepping smoothly and slowly through the stylized blocks and thrusts that were the basis for the sword technique taught by the templars.

He could remember hating the forms in his youth and being ordered to practice for hours in the courtyard as a source of punishment. Part of the punishment had been reciting the litany of Chant verses that accompanied each form, the stilted language providing the cadence and measure of the movements. The endless practice did eventually succeed in instilling the movements into his muscles until they became instinct. As a result, the forms readily came back to him, although he had to think far more about the routines than he should.

The continuous swing of the sword coupled with the careful footwork and the timing of the verse required considerable control, and even with the nighttime breeze picking up, he quickly broke a sweat. The rolling waves beneath his feet added an additional challenge, and soon he was breathing hard and discarding his sweat-soaked shirt.

The concentration and exertion succeeded in focusing his mind as nothing else had in recent months, and for a time he lost himself to the simple requirements of the exercise. The pull and strain of taut muscles holding the increasingly heavy sword. The grip of his bare toes balancing for purchase on the wooden deck. The twist of his hips and arms flowing in concert and balance. The stillness he felt inside as he automatically recited the words.

" _In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know_

 _The peace of the Maker's benediction._ "

He turned and ended with a thrust to the right, grunting as he held the blade perfectly steady in the air. His muscles burned, but he continued.

" _The Light shall lead her safely_

 _Through the paths of this world, and into the next._ "

He took two slow steps to the left, and parried an unseen blade with a fluid turn of his sword.

" _For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water._ "

He panted, his throat becoming dry as he moved through the next movements.

" _As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,_

 _She should see fire and go towards Light._ "

Feeling eyes on him, he suddenly broke off and spun around to see an indistinct shape standing at the walkway into his refuge. The darkness had grown since he had begun and the lanterns around the cabin cast deep shadows in each corner.

"Oh, don't stop on my account," Hawke said, stepping into the light. She wore a gray blanket that she held shut with one hand. The formless blanket obscured all but her bare toes, which peeped out enticingly. Her hair hung loose in waves and kinks from its earlier plait and the lantern light lit up the stray curls like a halo around her shadowed face. He tried not to think about what the pirate could have done to make Hawke appear so tousled, and instead tried to gauge her mood.

She was watching him intently, her face almost deliberately expressionless, but she didn't sound like she was mocking him. She shifted as the breeze picked up again and pulled the blanket tighter, revealing the smooth curve of her hip beneath it. She certainly wasn't wearing armor, if anything at all, under that blanket.

He panted and tried to catch his breath before answering. "Was . . . was there something you wanted, Hawke?"

"Varric just told me you were out here."

It was not a question, so Cullen continued to slow his labored breath and wiped a hand over his brow, brushing back the damp hair that was plastered there.

"He didn't say why," Hawke continued.

Cullen swallowed against the dryness in his throat and let her curiosity burn a few moments longer by taking a deep draught from his waterskin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then cordially held it out to her.

She refused with a tiny shake of her head, so he took another drink before setting it aside. Finally, he turned back to her and rested his bare blade across one shoulder. "Is there a question in there somewhere?"

Her nostrils flared slightly before she asked, "Why aren't you bunking below with the others? Varric says there's a reason, but I would have to ask you."

"It's of no importance, Hawke."

"Is everything okay?" A small wrinkle formed between her brows and she almost seemed worried. "If there's a problem, I can talk to Isabela."

"No," he said sternly.

Her lips thinned in irritation at his curt answer. "Cullen, I thought we were being friends again. I don't mean to pry, but this seems like something I should know. What's going on?"

She was probably just annoyed that Varric knew the reason and she didn't. But then Cullen caught that fragile trace of despair in her again and he instantly regretted his petty attempts to push her away.

"As I already told Varric, there is no reason to be concerned for me up here. You can return to your friend."

"Return . . . to Isabela?"

He looked away, embarrassed now that he had mentioned it. "Nevermind. It's none of my business."

Hawke didn't say anything right away, but started to rock on the balls of her feet, causing the rough blanket to swish around her feet. Cullen caught a flash of bare ankles and watched for more. "Actually, I-I was wondering if there was room up here for me, too."

He blinked a few times and then narrowed his eyes at her, wondering what her game was. "Wouldn't you be more comfortable in the captain's cabin?" he asked carefully.

"Not if Fenris has anything to say about it," she said with a crooked smirk. "I was told in no uncertain terms that I could talk to Isabela more . . . tomorrow."

_Fenris?_

"Oh!" he said finally in understanding and, he realized, a not inconsiderable amount of relief.

"So now that I've been kicked out," she began, looking everywhere but at him, "I thought maybe you could use some company up here." She shot him one quick glance from under her eyelashes.

A tremor of anticipation ran through him, and whatever her reasons, he definitely wanted her to stay. "Well, if no one else will take you in . . ." he drawled, earning himself a smile and a beguiling flash of dimple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up shortly and is, um, rated M for mature. :whistles innocently: Chapter 16: The Cadence of My Heart, where Cullen and Hawke's training session turns less than innocent. Thanks for reading and sticking with this story!! <3


	16. The Cadence of My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While underway to their meeting with the templars, Cullen invites Hawke to join in his training exercises, requiring discipline, stamina and a good deal of exertion. Inevitably, their discipline unravels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note that this chapter is now rather NSFW.

_Isabela's Ship_  
_Bound for Jainen_

Hawke continued to hover at the edge of Cullen's on-deck refuge in uncharacteristic uncertainty, eyeing him and chewing on her lower lip. She pulled the blanket more snugly around her shoulders but also caused it to slip to the side, forming a deep décolletage of bare skin and cleavage.

Whatever he had been about to say suddenly escaped him.

"I really didn't mean to interrupt your training," she said into the awkward silence.

"You didn't!" he said quickly, lowering his sword to rest the point on the deck, as if that could make the weapon and his white lie less obvious. "It was just a distraction," he added, hoping she would not ask from what.

"Those exercises . . ." she started, cocking her head to the side and accentuating the graceful curve of her neck. "I've never seen them done quite that way before."

"Was this not how I performed them those times you snuck into the Gallows to watch us train?"

She blushed at the reminder. "I'm afraid I don't recall. I don't think we were so focused on, erm, the technical details at the time," she countered with a grin, and now it was his turn to blush.

Oh, how he regretted all those shirtless training sessions back in Kirkwall now.

Or maybe not.

She cleared her throat. "What I meant was that I am familiar with those exercises, but from my own training."

"Templar training forms?" he said in surprise.

"I'm not sure, but my father taught me something similar when I was younger."

His brows shot up. "Apostate Malcolm Hawke taught his daughter _templar training forms_?"

She laughed. "Drilled them into me, more like, if that's what they are. But, without the words. That was the Chant?"

"It was. The Chant verses are important for establishing the rhythm. And the discipline, I suppose."

"That may explain why I'm lacking in both." She giggled and the sound was pure delight, unencumbered by the sadness that so often weighed her down. It warmed him just to hear it, and he found himself relaxing as well.

"No comment, Grace." The smile he added came easily.

"For once, I think I would deserve your teasing." Her eyes danced. "I haven't practiced them in quite some time."

"Neither have I," he admitted. "But they are a useful way to pass the time." He wet his lower lip. "You are welcome to join me, if you like."

"Really?"

"Of course." He was curious to see her version of the forms, but he could also admit to himself that it was more than curiosity that made him want to watch her move like that.

"You can't laugh," she warned.

"Never."

She stepped closer and dropped her blanket off her shoulders behind her. His breath caught in surprise as he braced himself for an expanse of bare skin hiding beneath, but it was not what he had expected at all. It was not even Hawke's usual shift and trousers, an all too familiar outfit from his vivid recollections of the pond.

Instead, her lithe form was clothed in a formfitting, sleeveless blue tunic that he had never seen before. And, Cullen knew he would have remembered such a plunging neckline or the way its high waist cinched in just under her breasts. The tunic was paired with billowy black, striped pants that fell to the middle of her calf and riffled in the breeze. She looked more like a pirate than an ironclad hero of legend, and Cullen could only assume that Isabela had had a hand in dressing her. An uncomfortable thought.

Hawke looked at him questioningly, holding her head high. "What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. I suppose I am simply not used to seeing you unarmed," he prevaricated.

"I don't need a blade for these forms, right?"

"No, no." He set his own sword aside, which would be safer in the confined space anyway.

She twisted her hair up into a messy bun at the nape of her neck as she moved to stand at his left side, shoulder to shoulder. She took a deep breath, and then stood at ease with her hands hanging at her side. "You begin and I'll follow." She darted another sidelong glance at him.

 _Not quite at ease_ , he recognized.

He swallowed and stole another look at the curves revealed by this rather becoming new outfit. _Sweet Maker, give me strength._

" _Maker, my enemies are abundant,_ " he said, starting with one of the early, simpler forms that was mostly about footwork. As he spoke, he took two steps forward and planted one foot in a standard guard stance.

She followed after a brief hesitation, watching him closely to recognize the pattern.

" _Many are those who rise up against me._ " He took an additional two steps and repeated the motion.

She followed, starting to move more fluidly.

" _But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion._ "

As he spoke, he took two steps to the left toward her, and she instinctively moved out of his way, taking the same steps to the left and then following through with a sweep of her main sword of arm that mimicked a slow, stylized slash through the air.

" _Should they set themselves against me,_ " he said and they continued through the rest of the form, moving slowly but steadily in concert. Except for a few minor hesitations and some unusual footwork, she had remembered it flawlessly. She took the last step and then shot him a proud grin.

"Nicely done, Grace."

"Thank you," she said unironically. "It is different with the words. I can see why you use them to keep time."

"I'm sure there are other reasons as well, but they do help."

"Next?" she prompted.

"As you wish."

" _In the long hours of the night,_ " he began, and started the next form.

This one was more complicated, but she again followed with near perfect fidelity, mirroring and then anticipating him. The subtle differences, he was starting to recognize, were not mistakes, but fundamental differences in style. He wondered if it was due to her training with two blades, an uncommon style among the templars, or if the differences merely reflected the inevitable evolution in technique due to different teachers and instructional approaches. After all, Malcolm Hawke presumably was no swordsman.

The subsequent forms showcased her strengths, with some lightning quick thrusts and complicated shifts in momentum. As someone who had trained countless recruits in these forms, Cullen could appreciate the skill it took for such precision and grace in her movements. But his eye also wandered to appreciate the way her tunic revealed the strength in her toned arms, the sway of her barely confined breasts, and the occasional flash of bare midriff. Once or twice he appreciated it so much that he would lose his place in the form. An amateur mistake that frustrated him, but made her smile.

The hymns from the Canticle of Trials were popular for forms because they were short and the words, which were normally sung, had a simple rhythm. But the verses were also a hodgepodge collected over the years that varied in pacing. He and Hawke now had reached the later forms that were slower, almost mournful, and more poetic.

In spite of the slower pace, or rather because of it and the extra effort it took to maintain control, he had started to sweat again and could clearly see the sheen on her skin as well. Her upper lip glistened and her blue tunic sometimes clung in the dark spots at the small of her back. Against regulation, they had drifted closer together with each subsequent routine until each step was a synchronicity of combined movement. As he would step forward, she would simultaneously move into the space he had vacated, and vice versa. The careful precision it required was strangely intoxicating, a raw physical symphony where even one misstep would have tangled them together.

" _Who knows me as You do?_ " he intoned, his voice husky from the exertion as he began the next form.

He swept his right arm across the front of his body and extended it in a measured pace to the left where he almost brushed her right arm as she tried to mirror the move. The form included some very stylized blocking that was more suited to a sword and shield style than to hers, but she had ingeniously turned it to her advantage with a subtle twist of her forearm. The minor change would make it far more effective for twin blades, although the wider angle brought her arm even closer to his.

He felt the heat from her bare skin and took note of the rapid rise and fall of her chest that was the only indicator of the effort she expended to hold the form.

" _You have been there since before my first breath._ "

He shifted away from Hawke in the opposite direction, moving his left arm slowly to the right in an imperfect reflection of the first move, since for a templar, the blocking would remain with his right shield arm. Not so for Hawke, however, and again she deviated from the standard form. Her hands extended together across her body toward the right and passed just in front of his left shoulder, moving into his line of sight as they mimicked the blocking positions of her blades. Her long fingers turned gracefully in the air, showcasing the slender strength in her wrists.

He closed his eyes briefly to steady himself. " _You have seen me when no other would recognize my face._ "

In concert with the words, he advanced several steps forward, arms moving in a series of deliberate, sweeping motions that was supposed to represent blocking multiple enemies along your path. She followed him step for step, although at a slightly oblique angle to his, and so she ended in a position that had her back pressed up only inches away from his bare chest. His right arm was curled around her in such a way that it was almost an embrace. She was so close that his breathing inadvertently stirred some of the small curls of hair that had escaped at the nape of her neck.

She held perfectly still, except for an involuntary shiver that ran through her. She flicked a heated glance at him from over her shoulder.

He swallowed and wondered if they should stop, seeing as her version of this form already had substantial deviations, but he was too intrigued at this point.

" _You composed the_ —" he began, but when he executed the three-quarter turn for the last part of the form, she went a different direction altogether this time and stumbled against his chest. He immediately closed his arms around her to catch her fall, but his foot caught on hers and he stumbled as well.

After a precarious moment of scrabbling hands and muffled curses, they somehow managed to remain upright, each with their arms locked around the other in an attempt to hold each other steady.

It should have been funny, since the mistake was inevitable. There should have been laughing. And apologies. And teasing. But the air was instead charged.

They only stared at each other, wild eyed and breathing heavily. His left hand burned where it had inadvertently slipped beneath the hem of her tunic to the warm skin at the small of her back.

Cullen didn't dare to move, guiltily leaving his hand where it lay against her skin, willing it not to explore further. He felt the rise and fall of her chest against his and the drum of her heartbeat quicken, like his own. Still she didn't say anything or move away.

He wet his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. " _You composed_ —" he repeated, but faltered to a stop on the final words of the hymn in a last ditch attempt at caution and restraint.

" _You composed_ . . ." Hawke began slowly, so slowly that he wondered if she truly remembered the words. Wondered, and feared, and hoped. ". . . _the cadence of my heart._ "

His pulse beat loudly amid a roaring in his ears. _Caution be damned._ He tangled a hand in her hair and pulled her into a fierce kiss, his other hand sliding up the bare skin of her back.

She met him halfway, slamming against him as she locked her arms around his neck. She slanted her mouth across his and returned his kiss with as much urgency, each of them gasping for breath but not breaking away. The dam had finally broken, and neither of them was in control.

He couldn't stop touching her, feeling her breath against his tongue, the silky warmth of her skin against his fingers, the press of her breasts against his chest. He slipped his hands up to cradle her face and ran his lips along her jaw and nipped down the column of her throat.

She keened softly and recaptured his mouth with hers, like she couldn't bear to be separated that long. Her fingers tangled painfully in the hair behind his ears, holding him closer as her lips moved on his.

Between kisses, she panted, "Cullen, are you . . ." It sounded like a question.

"Yes, Grace, yes," he murmured against her lips, and then silenced her again with his own.

He tilted his head for a better angle and then a different angle, and each time she moved in counterpoint, mirroring and anticipating him, as they fell into the timeless steps of the oldest form of all. Biting, open-mouthed kisses fell astray in their enthusiasm, while impatient hands strove to learn every curve all at once.

"But . . ." she managed, giving him pause through the haze of desire.

He placed his hands on either side of her face and looked deeply into her eyes, where he could see the echoes of their previous encounter and questions. "I trust you," he said.

He could see in her widening eyes that these were not the words she was expecting, but the effect they had on her was riveting. Her face softened in wonder, her lips opening in a small 'o,' as she searched his face. "Oh, Cullen," she murmured. "Are you sure?"

He smiled at her concern, and tenderly stroked the side of her face. "I have never been more sure of anything than I am of you."

Still framing her face between his hands, he leaned in and kissed her gently but thoroughly, and in that kiss, tried to show her the beacon of hope that she had become to him. Hope that someday he could finally be worthy of her trust. That someday, even he could be redeemed.

Her eyes fell shut again as she leaned into him, her palms pressed flat against his chest. He moved his hands up over hers, holding them against him in a moment of pure human connection. He laced his fingers with hers, and focused on the simple joy of touch unfettered by fear at long last.

The caress of her lips soon became more demanding and she deepened the kiss, igniting a growing need to touch more. He moved their joined hands out from between them and pulled her closer until she was pressed up against his chest again. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the soft underside of her jaw, tasting the salt on her skin from their exertions, which excited him.

He followed with a kiss to the hollow of her throat where her pulse fluttered wildly, and then a softer one to the rise of one breast above the snug bodice of her tunic. He hesitated, tracing the edge of the neckline with one finger, but she was not waiting any longer. She took hold of the hem of her tunic, and in one smooth move, shucked it up and over her head, revealing the majesty of her bare skin all at once.

His breath caught at the sight. Across the plane of her torso was a patchwork of broken scars and lines he had never seen. But far from marring her skin, highlighted the rich tapestry of her life.

"So beautiful," he breathed, trailing stuttering fingers down the column of her neck. He began to trace these lines like a fortune teller, wishing he could divine every detail about her with his fingertips alone. He followed with his lips across one particularly thick and twisted scar that had just missed her heart.

He then slipped his hand lower to cup one of her breasts almost reverently. He could only marvel at the softness of her skin, softer than anything he remembered, softer than he had imagined on more than one lonely night since their first kiss. Hawke arched up into his hand, pointedly reminding him that this was no dream.

He paused to relish her reaction, how her eyes had fallen shut and her face had relaxed in total enjoyment of the moment for once. No war to fight, no black-garbed spectre to fear, no brave face to feign. He wanted to do everything within his power to keep her there.

"Please don't stop," she whispered, eyes still closed, and he froze as he realized that this essentially was where they had been interrupted last time.

When he still did not move, she opened her eyes and slipped her hand up over his on her breast, holding it there for a moment. Then she moved his hand with hers, open palmed, to glide up her chest over her throat to cup her cheek. She turned her head into his hand and pressed a slow kiss to the center of his palm.

"I trust you, too," she breathed.

Guilt immediately cut through him, keen as a knife's edge, at what she offered. "Grace," he started, his voice strangled with sudden doubt.

"Trust _us_ ," she said, pressing another lingering kiss to his palm and closing his fingers around it.

He looked down at his hand, overcome with the precious gift she had given him, and found he was unable to deny it. Elation blazed through him, followed by something more primal.

With a growl deep in his throat, he pulled her into his arms, kissing her fiercely. Doubt burned away as she answered with her own fire, lifting up on her toes to bring them closer together while her fingers raked across the skin of his back. He slipped his hands down within the waistline of her flimsy trousers, easing them down to pool on the deck. At the same time, her hands scrabbled at his belt, and his hands joined hers to make quick work of it.

The instant the last stitch of their clothing hit the deck, he grasped her hips and lifted her in the air. She gasped, only momentarily surprised before she wrapped herself around him, locking her legs around his waist with a fierce smile. She then sank her fingers into his hair to pull him back to her parted lips.

Without breaking the kiss, he maneuvered them a few unsteady steps backwards until her back thudded up against the wall of the cabin. With the extra leverage holding her up, he moved one hand up to close on her breast again, feeling it immediately pebble against his palm. She moaned softly, making him answer in kind. Emboldened, he took the taut peak in his mouth.

She threw her head back against the wall with a sharp intake of breath and her hair started to come loose around her shoulders.

He shifted his attention to the other side, and the new sounds she made shot straight to his groin. She started to rock slightly against him, and his body automatically started to move with her, instinct taking hold even after so long. His heart raced in excitement and some fear.

"Grace," he gasped.

"Cullen," she said softly, her voice a balm to his uncertainty. She leaned back against the wall, shifting until she could take him in hand. The breath rushed out of his lungs at her bold touch, and he almost lost all control right there. With excruciating deliberation, she slowly slid him home and his hips bucked involuntarily at the sudden heat. He groaned and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her hard and close until he was fully sheathed.

A moan escaped him and he pressed his face to her neck, savoring the sensation of simultaneously being both around her and within her. A feeling so right it felt like home. His blood pounded for release and he had to concentrate to hold himself back as the air itself seem to vibrate around him.

"Oh, Grace," he almost sobbed against her skin, wanting the moment to last forever. He held her still, locked tightly in his embrace, her heart beating with his own.

But there was nothing within the Maker's sight that could have stopped him now, and even as he tried to prolong it, his body started again to move against her, gently at first and then more urgently. Hawke leveraged herself against the wall, pushing against him until he was seated so deeply she gasped each time they came together. He snapped his hips faster and faster, and her cries also sped up, adding disjointed words that sounded like his name and _don't stop_.

A second before he reached his end, he buried his face in her neck and raggedly called her name like an invocation before seeing stars. Then she also cried out, and he was shuddering anew at the sensation of her shattering around him.

He braced them both firmly against the wall as they caught their breath, locking his knees against the weakness that suddenly threatened to make them buckle. His ragged breathing started to slow against her neck and finally he straightened to look at her.

Her eyes were closed at first, and as she opened them drowsily, she practically glowed. Hawke smiled beatifically at him and the play of lantern light on her features reminded him of that day in the Bremen chantry. He again heard the chantry sister singing:

" _For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water._  
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,  
She should see fire and go towards Light."

He traced his fingers down the side of Hawke's face in wonder, and her smile turned mysterious.

_Fire is her water._

Had Hawke truly been a sign? He would never know, but there was a rightness to being with her. His heart felt like it was about to burst and finally he realized the feeling was happiness. He returned her smile and tightened his grip on her, blessing the Maker for bringing her into his life.

He could feel her legs trembling against him. "Are you okay?" he asked softly.

"I may not be able to walk properly," she said, with a crooked smile, "but I'm perfect."

He stopped himself from apologizing and just smiled. "Yes, you are," he murmured, kissing her before gingerly setting her down on her feet.

She leaned against him to get her balance, but then shivered as a breeze suddenly whipped between them.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I suppose it's colder out here than I had realized." The sun had set some time ago and the wind had an icy edge.

"Ah, I see how it is. This was all just a ploy to get me to warm your bedroll," she said, her eyes twinkling playfully.

"Yes, this was all part of my master plan, of course."

"I knew it," she said with mock severity. "You've been deceiving me from the start."

He knew she was not serious, but the blood still drained from his face to hear her say those words aloud.

She stopped and frowned. "Cullen, I'm joking."

"I-I know," he said lightly, trying to play it down.

"I can admit now that it was part of my plan," she said ruefully.

"What?"

"I . . . well." She cleared her throat. "You and I. Whatever we are, we're . . . more. More than collaborators. I was just trying to find a way for you to see it. Seems that the outfit helped."

He gaped at her in complete confusion. "I . . . You? . . . But . . ."

She snickered. "I'm sure there's a question in there somewhere, but I think you were going to share that bedroll with me?"

He frowned as icy suspicion took hold and he stepped back from her. "What are you saying?" he demanded.

Her mouth fell open, clearly taken aback at his vehemence. "A-all I meant was, well, what did you think I was doing with Isabela all day but being coached on how to capture your attention and to get you to see past our . . . collaboration?"

"Oh," was all he could say, dumbfounded that he had jumped to such different conclusions about her time closeted with the Rivaini.

"The clothes were Isabela's," she added quietly, avoiding his eyes while her hand slipping up to worry at a curl near her ear. Her other arm crept self-consciously across her torso. "I wasn't sure—"

He interrupted her with a kiss, cursing himself for a fool for undermining her confidence in what had just happened. "No matter what you're wearing, you have my attention. You have, in fact, become downright distracting." He grimaced and shook his head. "I'm sorry. It's hard for me to . . . to . . ."

"Trust people," she supplied, her face crinkling into a fond, lopsided smile. "I know. Luckily, it's part of your charm."

She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed herself against him. "But, I didn't mean to suggest I was being underhanded or manipulating or anything," she said in a small voice. "I just wanted to get close to you."

He fended off another wave of guilt at her words and gathered her in his arms. "I think you succeeded. For which I'm grateful. More grateful than you know."

"Oh, I think I have some idea." She sighed contentedly and rested her head against his shoulder. "I think I actually heard the glory of creation."

He chuckled that she was again quoting Chant verses at him. "Don't expect that to be the last time."

"I'll take that as a promise," she said, a smile in her voice.

The wind picked up again, reminding him quite acutely that they were both still unclothed as she shivered in his arms. "While you were quite fetching in Isabela's clothes, I'm still preferring you out of them. So, my lady, may I invite you to my bedroll?"

"I thought you'd never ask!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been brewing for a while, both for these characters and in my head. It started from some inspiration from one of mellorianj's Cullen artworks called [Great Sword](http://mellorianj.deviantart.com/art/GreatSword-Full-format-407485852), with a dash of Buffy & Angel doing tai chi, sexily. I'm not sure I quite captured the awesomeness that was in my head, but I hope it serves. NSFW is still outside my writing comfort zone, so be kind and thank you so much for reading! Thanks, as always, to my beta for pointing out the weaknesses in my earlier drafts of this one. **Next up: Chapter 17: The Glory of Creation.**


	17. The Glory of Creation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The immediate, fluffy aftermath of Hawke and Cullen's first night together.

_Isabela's Ship_  
_Bound for Jainen_

Cullen led Hawke over to where he had stashed his bedroll in a corner. He quickly rolled it out and settled his blankets up against the cabin wall in the lee of the forecastle, which kept most of the wind at bay. He smoothed them out as best he could while she watched.

He straightened and wrung his hands nervously. "You know, you might find greater comfort down below deck."

"You don't want me to stay?" she asked, a forlorn edge in her question.

"No! I mean, yes! I mean, I want you to stay, but all I have is . . . the hard deck and the wind. You deserve better."

"I'm not sure I deserve what I've already got," she said, slipping her arms around him again and gazing up at his face with a smile. "A bed under the open sky, with you, is quite something."

"If you're sure," he said uncertainly. He quickly slipped between his blankets and held them open for her, so she clambered inside and snuggled up against his chest with a sigh.

He wrapped his arms around her under the covers and held her tightly, feeling her body still shaking with small shivers.

"Why do you stay up here, though?" she asked quietly.

"You can go below deck. I won't mind."

She made a frustrated sound in her throat. "Cullen, I am wherever you are. I was just wondering. You still haven't told me."

"It's no great matter. I just don't like confined spaces."

"So you're claustrophobic?" She glanced up at him.

"Yes," he said, flushing.

"But that's no deep, dark secret. A lot of people are claustrophobic." She peered at him in the half-darkness, her face lit up with curiosity.

"It wasn't always like this." He found he couldn't look her in the eye.

"So then when . . .? Oh." She stopped once she realized.

He sighed. "Yes. Since the Circle Tower fell and they held me in that . . . cage. I could still walk around a little, but after—what? weeks? months?—it felt no bigger than a coffin. Some days, it was like I couldn't breathe. And, sometimes, I'm back there again." He let out a ragged breath, and her arms slipped around him in silent support.

"So, I just can't handle small spaces any longer," he finished. "Ships are the worst. Which Varric found out when we first left Kirkwall. And that is why our first night together is being spent outside, on the hard floor, instead of somewhere more comfortable."

"The only important thing about our first night is that it's together. Wherever we might be." She was quiet and then added softly, "But thank you for telling me. I didn't know it still affected you like that."

"It's not often. But when it does, it's at the least opportune moment."

"Ah, yes, to that, I can . . . relate," she said, hiding her face against his chest again.

His arms tightened around her. "I'm sure you can, my Grace." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "Sleep now."

ooXXoo

Cullen found he could not sleep despite the bone-deep lassitude that had crept over him. He lay curled around Hawke who had fallen into a deep slumber. He had held her in his arms until her shivering stopped and when he relaxed his grip, he found that she had fallen asleep against his chest. He had shifted around until her head was pillowed on one of his arms and then he had watched over her.

At first, he just enjoyed the rise and fall of her breathing, which soon slowed as she slipped deeper into repose. She was bonelessly relaxed and his fingers twitched against the urge to trace across her forehead where the concerned wrinkles had disappeared, or along her mouth where the fine lines from her smile remained.

He had watched her for so long now that he relished the opportunity to do so without making her self-conscious. Who could have known six months ago that his vigilant guard over her, his unwitting mark, would have turned from suspicion to protectiveness? Hate to love? Whatever this was between them, he knew it wouldn't last. How could it, when he had been lying to her and spying on her for months? He sighed. Now that he was so close to everything he might ever want, he did not want to waste a second with her. So he watched on.

He tried to sleep at one point, eventually turning onto his back. But no sooner had he shut his eyes than she started to thrash restlessly next to him. He reared up over her, propping himself on the arm under her head. She shifted restlessly and clenched her eyes against some horror. Her mouth worked soundlessly, until she sobbed a soft, "No!"

She had told him that the nightmares had abated, but they had slept apart for so long, he had no way of knowing the truth. Seeing her wracked with fear hurt something inside him. How could he protect her from herself?

He curled into her, trying to show her with his body heat that she wasn't alone. He ran his fingertips lightly along the side of her face and murmured, "It's alright, Grace. I'm here. Go back to sleep."

She flung her head from side to side, as if she could shake off the bad dream. Her eyes fluttered open, but unseeing into the night. He held a bracing breath and waited for her to call out to Anders again. "Cullen?" she suddenly said, sounding fearful. Her eyes rolled, searching, but then they fluttered closed again.

"Shh, I'm here, Grace. Sleep." He gently brushed her hair back from her face, which finally relaxed.

She murmured his name again, and turned into him, burying her face against bare chest. With a long sigh, she slipped back into undisturbed sleep.

He smiled and gently wrapped his arms around her, holding her to him. He pressed a light kiss to the top of her head. "Sleep."

She grumbled something and shifted, so he ran his hand soothingly over her back until she settled again. To avoid disturbing her, he continued to lightly caress her skin.

His palm stuttered across a number of scars he had only seen before from a distance, so without thinking his fingertips began to follow them, learning the topography of her. His fingers kept returning to one scar, which was broader and more jagged, ghosting back and forth over her spine until he was certain that this was the twin of the deeper one on her chest. The one that was just to the left of her heart. He no longer wondered at its depth now that he realized it had resulted from a wound reaching all the way through her body. Now he wondered how she had received it, and felt a sudden burning need to avenge that wound, however old it might be.

"The Arishok."

His hand froze and he looked down to see her roll back from his side, awake and watching him. "The qunari leader gave you this scar?"

"Yes. The heroic stories about how Marian Hawke became the Champion of Kirkwall rarely include the fact that she almost died earning her title."

His fingers automatically sought out the scar above her heart, tracing the outline of it and confirming his suspicions that it had gone all the way through. "This could not have healed naturally."

Her laughter had a bitter edge. "No, without Anders's magic, I would have been dead for sure. Even with it . . . the fight took its rather unattractive toll."

Cullen couldn't stop tracing it, alternately running his finger tip over the front scar and then skimming over her skin to her back and the matching scar there. "I'm sorry. I never knew. I was in Lowtown that day, protecting the people from the antaam while the Arishok was rounding up the nobles in Hightown. Meredith only said . . ." He paused, remembering the patchy truths his commander would share. "She only said the Arishok had been stopped. And that it had not been her who had saved the city. It was later that I learned it had been you."

Hawke snorted. "Why does that not surprise me? Meredith was never my biggest fan."

Cullen laughed at Hawke's understatement, harder than was warranted, but for some reason, the statement struck him as hilarious. His shoulders were still shaking with laughter when he could finally stop. Hawke just gazed up at him in bemusement.

"Ahem. Yes, I would agree. Meredith was not a fan of much. But you, least of all."

Hawke chuckled and shifted onto her stomach, lacing her fingers under chin. "That's all right. I don't need lots of fans. Just a devoted few who don't mind my unsightly scars." She bumped her hip against him with a playful smile.

"I shall ever be a fan, my lady." He leaned down and pressed his lips to the scar on her back. "Especially one with such an alluring story etched onto her beautiful skin." He dropped a trail of kisses along the edge of the scar and with fingertips and mouth, moved across to the next, a long thin line that ran diagonally across her ribs, and then the next, which was similar but crossed from the other direction.

She shivered and closed her eyes. "I don't know that they're so alluring. Particularly not the stories."

As he trailed his fingers lightly from scar to scar, he noticed a pattern in the criss-crossing and a chilling deliberation to the pattern. He had caught a glimpse of the lash marks previously, but now he could guess that the man from her nightmares was responsible for these and probably others. He pressed a kiss to the small of her back. "No matter how ugly their origin, you have made them lovely. Because they are part of you, Grace. Part of who you have become."

He could feel her muscles start to tense up. "Even the parts I would gladly give back?"

He sat up and pulled her with him until he could look her in the eye and be sure he had her attention. "Yes. Because the woman I see before me. The woman I've come to know these past months. She is beautiful. All of her." He waited for this to sink in before his mouth quirked up at one corner. "And I say this with confidence, since I have recently had occasion to become acquainted with even more of her."

This got her smiling again and the set of her shoulders relaxed again as she settled on her knees before him. "I suppose we all have our marks to bear." She reached out to run her fingers over his own share of scars striping his chest, pausing on one at his collarbone from an overzealous guard early in Cullen's incarceration.

He closed his eyes, enjoying her simple touch for what it was, since it would not change the past. No matter how Cullen cut his hair or his beard to resemble his younger self, some things were irrevocably different. It was time for him to stop looking backwards as well.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply. "We do. They are part of us, but don't define us."

Her lips moved on his, slow and deliberate, while her hands glided over his skin. Her finger tips traced a path across new and old scars, creating an unexpected counterpoint of sensation as they tripped alternately over unblemished skin, old gnarls of scars long desensitized to feeling, and newer scars that were overly sensitive. He closed his eyes as the unevenness of his scars left him unable to predict how sensitive any sweep of her fingers might be. The world narrowed to the trail of her hands while the chaotic sparks of sensation kept him on edge. He could almost imagine that the irregularity in feeling across his scars mirrored the tumult of emotion from the actual events that put them there. The long-faded, barely felt stripes from the corrective lashes of his youth in training. The oversensitive tingling buried in the twisted knot of dead scar tissue at his collar bone from the templar jailor who had wanted to make an example of Cullen's alleged treason until another had pulled the man off.

Cullen shuddered and encircled her with his arms, effectively stilling her hands and the memories they evoked. He rested his head on her shoulder and breathed in the clean scent of her skin mixed with the sea air.

She pulled back and touched his face, her eyes concerned. "Are you okay?"

He smiled broadly at the question. He could not remember a time in recent memory he had felt better. " _In the pounding of my heart, I hear the glory of creation_ ," he quoted.

Slowly, like the sun struggling to break through clouds, she smiled back at him with an incandescence that challenged the darkness. _The glory of creation indeed_ , he marveled.

"So now you're stealing my lines?" she asked with an ironically arched brow.

He chuckled. "No, merely trying to impress you with my superior knowledge of the Chant. Which still begs the question, Grace, of your infidel's knowledge of it."

"Everyone knows the Chant," she repeated, but her lips trembled as she tried not to smile.

"Ah, no. As someone who regularly attends services, I can tell you that even some of the most devout do not know all the words. So the mystery remains."

"Fine. When I was girl in Lothering, I was part of the Chantry choir."

"You sang in the Chantry choir?" he said, unable to hide his astonishment.

"Yes," she said, her tone turning defensive. "Carver and I both did. It was something special that we did together. Bethany was too shy to sing in public."

He frowned, furrowing his brow as he tried to reconcile this revelation with what he knew of Hawke and her disdain for religion and faith. "So, what changed?"

Hawke snorted. "I grew up." She laid back down on the blankets beside him, crossing her arms across her chest.

He lay down beside her, propped up on one elbow and trailed a finger along her forearm. He wasn't going to let her retreat from him now. "It had to be more than that."

"Not really. The Chant describes a world where the Maker offers forgiveness and love, where good things happen to good people for being good, but the world isn't like that. It's all a lie. So I don't sing it anymore."

"When was the last time?"

She let out an amused exhalation of breath and uncrossed her arms, looking up at him in exasperation. "The last time I sang? This morning, as you'll recall. That's about as close as I get."

"The last time you sang the Chant."

"Oh. I don't know. It's been a while. It was . . ." Her eyes became distant and her smile fell away. "I suppose it was when Carver died. After we escaped the Blight."

"I see." And he could. From all accounts, the Hawke family's flight from the darkspawn horde had been harrowing, and resulted in the death of her brother. Any one of these things could be enough to lose one's faith.

Cullen moved his fingers to tracing lazy figure eights on her sternum.

"It's funny, though, that it's always easier to remember the words when you sing them than when you recite them," she mused. "I was much better singing the Chant, just so you know."

"Sing it for me," he said on a whim, suddenly want to hear it from her.

She guffawed. "No!"

"Why not?"

"I told you. I don't sing it anymore."

"But the ugliness in the world is the very reason we sing it. To spread the hope of redemption to those who need it."

"Then you sing it!"

"I want to hear you."

She made a rude noise. "No."

"Grace."

"No!" She pressed her lips together stubbornly, but there was a curve to them that suggested she was still fighting back a smile. "It's been a long time. And I . . . No."

He leaned down and started a trail of kisses across her stomach, and her intake of breath suggested that she could be susceptible to some unfair coercion. He flicked his tongue in her navel and she froze briefly before exhaling roughly.

He looked up at her face from where his lips continued across her skin. "Grace, please."

She grimaced and looked away, muttering, "No."

He nuzzled the valley between her breasts and started a new path up to one peak. She gasped when his mouth fixed on it. "I want to hear you."

She obliged him, but with a tiny wordless mewl of pleasure. So he moved to different tactics, feathering kisses across her chest and then with his lips just a breath away from her skin, he started to sing very softly.

" _I have faced armies, With You as my shield."_

She started at the sound, but then froze, unmoving except that she was breathing a bit more quickly, listening.

" _And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing  
Can break me except Your absence."_

He paused to wet his lips, hearing how rusty he was after so many years. He cleared his throat and sought out the hollow at her clavicle and pressed his lips to it. "Sing with me, Grace," he whispered.

"No," she responded just as softly. "Stop."

He moved his lips along her collarbone and continued.

" _When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me.  
And the taste of blood fills my mouth."_

The verse thrummed over her skin as he sang, his lips brushing against her as they formed the words, and she visibly shivered.

"Stop," she whispered again, bumping her hip against him in emphasis.

" _Then in the pounding of my heart  
I hear the glory of creation."_

He was relieved when his voice started to come back, sounding more like the light tenor the old Revered Mother had once coached.

" _You have grieved as I have.  
You, who made worlds out of nothing."_

His singing voice had always been a source of secret pride even if it had also been too long since he had exercised it. He tried to use it to his best advantage on Hawke as the words took on a new depth of meaning for him, one certainly unintended by the ascetic Chantry prophets who had first written the hymns for the Maker's glory.

" _We are alike in sorrow, sculptor and clay,  
Comforting each other in our art."_

He pressed another kiss just underneath her jaw, when suddenly she sat up to face him. He moved back, uncertain if he had angered her at last and readied his apologies. Her expression was hard to read, as her lips had thinned to a line which typically signaled her displeasure. Then she swallowed, and sang in a wobbly alto, " _Do not grieve for me, Maker of All_."

He smiled tremulously and then with an unspoken cue, they continued together, her voice steadying as she sang. Her eyes remained focused on him, like she was concentrating on the shape of the words as they left his lips.

" _Though all others may forget You,_  
Your name is etched into my every step.  
I will not forsake You, even if I forget myself."

He shifted up onto his knees and pulled her up with him, wrapping his arms around her waist. Now that they were fully upright and could each take a deeper breath, it was easier. Too easy, in fact, to slip his voice into harmony with hers, wrapping the melody in and around her as comfortably as he did with his body.

" _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_  
I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.  
I shall endure.  
What you have created, no one can tear asunder."

She was leaning into him now, their lips just inches away, and her voice softened.

" _Who knows me as You do?_  
You have been there since before my first breath.  
You have seen me when no other would recognize my face.  
You composed the cadence of my heart."

She stopped suddenly with what sounded like a sob and pulled Cullen into a firm kiss, stopping the song. When she released him, a single tear slipped down her cheek. Horrified, he immediately brushed it away with his thumb, a thousand apologies crowding his tongue.

"H-Hawke, I-I-I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Shhhh," she said, leaning her forehead against his.

"But . . ."

"Thank you."

"What?" he said, completely dumbfounded. He pulled back to gain some clue from her expression, but her eyes shone brightly into his and she smiled somewhat sadly. "Tell me. What have I done?" he demanded, still alarmed.

She pressed another watery kiss to his lips, moving deliberately against him in a mesmerizing dance that had his head spinning. He held her closer, hoping she could feel his contrition through the firmness of his embrace.

She leaned back slightly within the tight circle of his arms, her face blissfully radiant, if damp.

"Grace, tell me what I've done," he pleaded in a whisper.

"It's been so long. I'd forgotten what it felt like."

"What _what_ felt like?" he asked, knowing it must be a dense question but he wanted to be completely sure with her.

"To sing like that. I think the only time Carver and I didn't fight was when we sang together. His voice wasn't as beautiful as yours, but I hadn't realized how much I missed it." She bit her lip. "So thank you for that."

He frowned, unsure how he felt about dredging up her grief for her lost brother, which certainly had not been his goal. "But are you all right? You're crying."

"I'm perfect. You promised I would hear the glory of creation." She brushed her lips against his. "Now I truly have." She gave him another teasing kiss with a bare touch of her lips and a darting swipe of her tongue. "Now I think I'd like you show me the glory of creation a bit more metaphorically," she said, grinning.

He tightened his arms in response, dipping his head to deepen their kiss in a way that was anything but metaphorical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ironically, after I wrote this, I realized that it reminded me of conversations we once had in the far mists of time in the Cullen thread about plausible scenarios for Cullen to sing. We all wanted to see it, given Greg Ellis's/Jonny Rees's vocal talent, but worried it would invariably come off as cheesy. Then, before DA:I came out, Jonny teased that Cullen would sing for real in-game, and we speculated some more. I leave it to you, gentle reader, to determine if this scene ended up plausibly romantic or not. LOL But I rather like how it turned it out. :) 
> 
> Next up: More plotty stuff as our heroes arrive in Jainen and confront the templars. _Chapter 18: Belly of the Beast_ **Thanks as always for reading!**


	18. Belly of the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Co. arrive in Jainen and meet with the templars at last.

_Jainen  
_ _Ferelden_

Hawke stood on deck as they approached the port at Jainen and was immediately assaulted by the unique odor of damp decay and rotting fish from the surrounding marshlands. Jainen was situated at the swampy delta of small islands where Lake Calenhad met the waters of the Waking Sea, making it a convenient crossroads for the local maritime economy but not much else.

Through the fog in the distance, she could see the bobbing haloes of light aboard small fishing vessels heading out for the early morning catch. Bells clanged eerily, distorted by the heavy air, and crawled uneasily over her skin as they dredged up unpleasant memories. But, before she could slip too far into the past, warm arms encircled her shoulders from behind and anchored her back in the present.

Cullen dropped a kiss behind her ear, saying nothing. She closed her eyes and relaxed back against his chest, drawing strength from his steadying presence.

It was almost uncanny how easily they had slipped into this new understanding in last few days. Then again, Cullen had been a steadying presence in her life for months now, the only real difference was that now she also got to kiss him. A significant bonus, she would be quick to admit. No one else on board had batted an eye at the fact that they now stood a little closer, touched a little more often, smiled a little more readily. Except perhaps for Varric, who grumbled something about how it was about time. Only Isabela had commented on the sleeping arrangements, ostensibly out of concern when she asked if Hawke and Cullen wanted to borrow her cabin at some point. Hawke had blushed furiously, but Cullen had politely offered his thanks before pointing out that he preferred the open air while at sea.

"We're here," Hawke said.

He buried his face in her neck, inhaling deeply before trailing lazy kisses down to her shoulder. "Mmhmm," he murmured, like he was engaged in something important from which he shouldn't be interrupted.

She smiled and tried to reclaim his attention. "Cullen? We will—"

"Mmhmm," he said again, sinking one hand into her hair to turn her head into the kiss he pressed to her mouth. She immediately parted her lips, letting herself be distracted by the way his mouth moved and the play of his tongue against hers.

When he released her, he sighed and gathered her against his chest. "Now, you were saying?" he said near her ear.

She giggled and felt his answering smile curve against her cheek. "We'll be docking soon. And then, headed into the belly of the beast."

"You sound worried."

"Not worried, exactly. I don't know. There's something about this place that makes me uneasy." His arms tightened around her in response. "Probably just the fog."

"Some apprehension is normal. Today is an important step for us. But still just a step. There is no need to worry. Our cause is righteous."

"I hope the templars see it that way, too."

"They will," he said. "And if not, we'll make them see."

"You're very resolute this morning," she said, smiling in spite of herself.

"Nice what a good night's sleep can do," he murmured against the nape of her neck.

"I don't know that there was so much sleeping involved," she pointed out, trying to sound severe and failing.

"Hmmm. True enough. Speaking of which, we do have a few minutes left before we need to be ready. Isabela has barely roused the crew." He mouthed the shell of her ear lightly, letting his suggestion sink in.

Liquid heat immediately pooled in her nether regions, and although it felt irresponsible, she grabbed his hand and started to lead him back to the stern of the ship. "We'll need to hurry," she said, biting her lip in her excitement.

"As my lady commands," he said, sweeping her up into his arms to her squeals of delight before striding quickly to their safe haven.

ooXXoo

A few hours later, Hawke looked back wistfully at the prow of Isabela's ship disappearing back into the fog as her company moved farther from the docks. The wan sunlight struggled to break through, causing the shadows to fade in and out of existence along their path and reinforcing her uneasiness instead of alleviating it. It did not help that the more she saw of Jainen, the more apparent the influence of the mage tower became.

Jainen was a small town in the middle of a marshland and, as such, its only sources of income were the sea and the Chantry. This apparently had not changed much since the circles fell. The templar presence was everywhere as they passed through the town, from templar patrols in the streets to shops selling what was likely tainted or extremely diluted lyrium to brothels that proclaimed templar discounts.

The complement of mages at the Jainen Circle had always been small, so the uprising had had little effect here. Some of the mages had slipped away in secret to join the rebellion, but the majority had merely stayed. While it was said that some Circles had captive populations of mages forced to serve the Order, the mages in Jainen reportedly had chosen this path. A volatile situation, Cullen had warned.

"We should be cautious," he had said. "Nothing is ever as it seems on the surface."

Hawke could only agree as they trudged up the steep rise that led to the Circle Tower on the edge of town. The Tower occupied the only high ground in the swampy area, sitting atop what could barely be called a hill. Hawke had finally sent a messenger ahead to the Tower when they had pulled into port, the reply to which had been positive, but not encouraging in its welcome. Then again, it could have been worse, Varric had pointed out, as he so often did.

Hawke walked at the head of the group with Cullen at her side, each clad in new armor provided by Alistair to ensure they looked suitably impressive for the role they would play. Hawke's armor mimicked her distinctive Champion's armor that she had abandoned years before, the red and black motif and the flapping tabard feeling garishly ostentatious after her years of trying to blend in with the other shadows. Similarly, Cullen had a new shiny breastplate in a style he had once favored in Kirkwall. He had eschewed the skirting or any other genuine templar trappings out of principle, although Alistair had talked him into donning a pair of vambraces engraved with the templar sword of mercy. After a lengthy debate, Cullen finally had agreed since they were a personal gift from the King and not standard issue from the Order. Nevertheless, Hawke could tell that Cullen was uneasy wearing templar heraldry, as he continued to twist and adjust them against his forearms.

Hawke and Alistair had agreed that a smaller group, unaccompanied by Fereldan troops, would have a higher likelihood of success. But she now wondered if a few extra swords and shiny regalia might have made her feel safer as she passed shady looking townsfolk watching her with distrustful eyes. The whole port town felt like a templar ecosystem, and any trouble she had with the Order, she knew she would have with the town at large. As an additional precaution, Isabela had decided to join them and had brought along two men from her crew, the lanky blond city elf who was her first mate and a dull-faced man so muscled he was almost broader than he was tall. Even with the extra backup, Hawke had to resist the urge again to draw her weapon.

Merrill was even more fidgety than normal. They had discussed leaving her behind on the ship with Isabela so the mage would not have to enter the templar stronghold. But Merrill had insisted on accompanying them, arguing that even the Lord Seeker would not harass official envoys from the King of Ferelden. Hawke hoped she was right.

The final stretch up to the massive double doors of the Tower made Hawke's skin tingle in fear. The broad courtyard before the white marble tower was deserted, as if the templars were so entrenched in Jainen that they had nothing to fear. A low wall ran along either side of the cobbled courtyard, and a small, stone fountain in its center lay dormant, the rime of water in its depths green with neglect.

Their footsteps echoed imperfectly from the walls in a cacophonous jumble of noise that set Hawke's teeth on edge. Cullen's hand gripped the pommel of his sword more tightly, and she could tell from the set of his shoulders that he was anxious.

"Is this normal?" she asked softly.

"No. Even the Order has cause to be more vigilant than this. I also don't know if this is typical for Jainen, or purely for our benefit," Cullen said.

"Fewer templars is good though!" Merrill piped in, talking quickly as she did when she was nervous.

"Or, it means that they are all inside waiting for us, kitten," Isabela said, her tone more serious than usual.

"We will know soon enough," Hawke said. She continued their advance toward the massive wooden doors as if they had no misgivings.

"No sentries," Cullen mused when they reached the doors, "but we are certainly being watched." He wisely kept his gaze on the doors instead of searching the arrow slits in the tower's facade above their head. He grabbed a giant cast iron ring hanging on the door, ready to bang the knocker against the door, when they heard the muffled sound of a bolt being drawn on the other side.

They all immediately stepped back as the seam between the two doors yawned wide, revealing a tidy row of helmeted templars in formation, blocking the dim circular entryway in which they stood. Hawke felt Cullen tense again in the face of his former brethren, and she fought the compulsion to touch him in understanding.

An armored man stood at the head of the column, gloved hands hooked into his wide belt as he watched them with unreadable eyes. The style of his armor was different from anything she had seen Cullen wear, somehow more ornate, like Meredith's, with intricate etching around the sword of mercy on his chest and shorter skirting around his waist. He also wore a long black cloak clasped at his shoulder with a heavy pin and thrown back over his shoulders. The cloak and the experience in the gray splashes in his dark hair and beard suggested a high-ranking templar.

The man's world-weary gray eyes looked over each of them in turn before speaking. "Champion of Kirkwall," he said to Hawke, and then looked at Cullen. "And the former Knight-Captain Cullen. Welcome to Jainen. I understand you have some business to discuss with the Lord Seeker."

"Ser Germaine," Cullen said, inclining his head low in respect, confirming Hawke's suspicions. "Thank you for your welcome. Yes, we come from the crown of Ferelden with urgent business."

"Urgent business the King could not attend to himself," Germaine said, his tone expressionless which only served to make his comment more damning. "Instead, he sends two fallen heroes. A curious choice, to say the least."

"Admittedly," Hawke cut in, "we were hoping our notoriety would get your attention." She gave him a tight, feral smile with a quick flash of teeth.

Germaine regarded her for a moment before nodding once. "And you have it. Maker have mercy on you."

A chill ran down Hawke's spine so she smiled again. "May He indeed, Ser Germaine." The name had finally sparked a memory for her. "I'm pleased to see the Knights Divine here to receive us as well. I had not realized you were still so directly involved in leading the templars now that the new Lord Seeker has taken the reins." It was a bold move and inwardly she wondered at her audacity as the knight's eyes narrowed in anger from her clumsy taunt.

"I think you will find, Marian Hawke, that the Order is bigger than any one man." Germaine glanced briefly at Cullen. "This is how we endure, even as dynasties change, and heroes rise and fall."

Hawke swallowed. She had clearly hit a nerve, but may also have upped the stakes by moving them prematurely onto the subtle threat stage already.

"We welcome the involvement of the Knights Divine," Cullen interjected smoothly. "Divine Justinia greatly valued your counsel, as do we."

Germaine's eyes softened as the templar allowed himself to be mollified, for now. "The Lord Seeker awaits." He turned on his heel and motioned sharply to the two lines of templars. The soldiers instantly obeyed and as one, stepped back and turned to line either side of the corridor, like an honor guard, or the jaws of a trap. Germaine swept down the hallway with the unspoken expectation that they would follow.

"Here we go," Hawke muttered before leading the way further into the heart of the tower.

ooXXoo

The great hall they entered was enormous, able to hold many more mages than the Circle Tower had housed in recent years. Armored templars stood at attention at every exit, one might say more than was warranted for one room. On the far side, near a fireplace that was larger than Hawke was tall, stood a long table at which a number of grim looking templars and Seekers were seated. Hawke recognized other templar cloaks of office, reds, blues, two more black adjacent to an empty chair that Germaine reoccupied, and noted that a fourth black-cloaked Knight Divine was absent.

Sitting at the table's head, his two hands relaxed upon the arms of the tall, straight backed chair, was one of the most beautiful men Hawke had ever seen, with bright blue eyes and hair the color of spun gold that fell in a wave to his shoulders. The man was younger than any of the others at the table, but his air of easy authority made it clear that this was Colin Marchand, Lord Seeker of Thedas.

He watched their approach with a look of amused benevolence, his smile inviting and warm. Hawke started to become more optimistic about their reception here.

"Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, you are welcome in these halls," he said without standing up. He had a voice to match his good looks, low and melodious, the kind of voice people lean in to hear more of.

"Thank you, My Lord, we are grateful for the audience."

"But of course. These are momentous times with the world on the precipice of change. Who would turn away a messenger from the King of Ferelden. I must say, I am intrigued with a communication of such import that it requires such secrecy. Our welcome could have been more grand had we known to expect you."

"I apologize for the secrecy but our cause is dear." Hawke started to fumble at the wallet at her waist, which held the signed documents from Alistair and his peers.

"Ah, forgive me! Before we get to business, you must make your companions known to me." The Lord Seeker clasped his hands in his lap and leaned forward, his face bright in anticipation. "I am an old Kirkwaller myself, you know."

"Oh, certainly, My Lord." Hawke glanced at Cullen, and there was a warning in his grim expression. "May I present—?"

"Cullen, former templar, I understand," the Lord Seeker interrupted. "This must be a change of pace from your cell in the Gallows." Marchand's expression remained fixed in polite interest, setting off warning bells for Hawke that there was something else at play here.

Cullen remained stoic in the face of the Seeker's jab. "It is, ser, now that justice has been served."

Marchand's eyes moved on to Varric, apparently done with Cullen, so Hawke cautiously proceeded to introduce everyone, one by one. Merrill trembled so badly that Hawke worried the mage might faint when she introduced her. Isabela ostentatiously swept her hat off her head at her introduction and started to say something, but the Lord Seeker cut her off mid-sentence.

"Yes, and your other companions," he said, eyes on the sailors accompanying Isabela.

Hawke exchanged another worried look with Cullen. She did not even know their names, truth be told, so she looked helplessly at Isabela, who smiled serenely. "Members of my crew, your lordship," Isabela supplied. "My first mate, Torrin, and Nug." Torrin had worn a stocking cap upon his blond head, and quickly pulled it off in a last minute show of respect, revealing his elven ears.

"I see," Marchand said, drumming the fingers of one hand on the arm of his chair. "And so where is the . . . Martyr of Kirkwall?"

When Hawke paused, mind racing to guess where he was going with this, Marchand continued. "Oh! My apologies. I suppose a man only receives that title if he actually dies for his cause." The Lord Seeker still smiled, but now Hawke could see the brittle edges and the fanatical gleam in his eye. "I suppose I should just call him the Terrorist of Kirkwall."

_He was expecting Anders._

Cold fingers of dread slipped down Hawke's spine as Sebastian's warnings about Colin Marchand came back to her too late.

In as neutral a voice as she could muster, she replied, "Anders is no longer with us."

"No longer with the Champion? Really?" The Lord Seeker hadn't changed his tone, still sounding cheerful and reasonable. In the shadows behind the Seeker's chair, however, a non-descript man with flat blond hair that Hawke hadn't noticed until now cringed.

"No matter," Marchand said after a pregnant pause. "Now let us hear your message from the King."

Germaine shifted in his chair and his eyes bored into Hawke, like his attention was now finally engaged.

She fished out the documents from Alistair at last. "Lord Seeker Marchand, King Alistair of Ferelden, and his esteemed peers of the realm," she said and then read out from her mental list the names signed on the bottom of the sealed invitation she extended to Marchand. "They enjoin you, for the good of Thedas and in the name of peace, to come to a parlay with the mages."

He eyed the document distastefully, and after another glance at her, broke the seal and quickly scanned its contents. He didn't say anything, only looked at Hawke thoughtfully. He then held up the invitation in his hand and the pale man from the shadows scurried forward to take it. The man bowed deeply to Marchand and then, after skimming through the document first himself, delivered it to Germaine, who read it with far more deliberation.

Germaine laid it out flat before him on the table, and shared several long looks with his fellow Knights Divine, who each nodded solemnly. Germaine then gave Marchand a speaking look, to which the Lord Seeker wrinkled his nose and sighed.

"A parlay with the mages," Marchand said in an even tone, but something in eyes imbued his words with a layer of disdain.

"My Lord, this conflict is tearing Thedas apart. Please help us bring peace," Hawke said.

"The Templar Order has managed the mages for a millennium _in peace_. The College of Enchanters broke this peace when they broke their compact. We did not start the war, but we will finish it," Marchand responded, a hint of steel in his voice.

"But at what cost?" Cullen said in a quiet voice, and all eyes turned to him in surprise.

"I think you know the cost, better than most," Marchand retorted, emotion coloring his words at last. "We are trying to avoid another Kirkwall. Where you and your brethren failed, we will succeed. We will not have more tragedies like what happened to my dear mentor Elthina and the others at the Kirkwall Chantry. Never again." His lip curled in a sneer on his last words, and Hawke knew they had to tread very lightly here.

"And yet by continuing to fight," Cullen answered, spreading his hands in a plea for reason, "you only ensure that the next generations of mages continue to be your antagonists. The templars will never, can never, stem the tide, as every day new mages come into their power. In the long term, this war is ultimately something you can never win."

Germaine pursed his lips as he gave Cullen a measuring look, and then spoke up at last. "If there's no hope, Ser Cullen, then why parlay?"

Cullen turned toward the knight. "Ser, the Chant tells us _Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him_. To serve. If we want to find a way for magic to serve, we need to broker a peace with the mages and find a place for them within society again. Their role may no longer be the same capacity as before, but we must find a way to heal this wound." Hawke tried not to smile proudly like a smitten fool and wondered if Cullen even noticed that he had started using the term _we_ again to talk to about the Order. But, regardless, it was working. The men around the table were all listening very carefully, and encouragingly, several were nodding.

"And you think the mages are just going to give back their freedom?" the Lord Seeker asked, his fingers drumming again on his chair.

"We won't know until we ask, My Lord," Hawke replied. "We will also be approaching the mages to invite them to the peace table. The only way to truly finish this is to talk with them, and negotiate a way forward."

Marchand's fingers continued to drum as he considered her words, his face calculating.

"She has a point, Marchand," Germaine said into the silence, and there were nods and murmurs of agreement around the table.

"She does indeed," Marchand mused, stroking his chin for a moment before turning hooded blue eyes onto the older man. "I think we should adjourn to consider this proposal." Marchand then snapped a glance around the table that made everyone sit a little a straighter in their chairs.

He looked back at Hawke and steepled his hands before his lips thoughtfully. "Champion, thank you for bringing this request to our attention. My servant here will see to your comfort while we deliberate." He motioned with his hand, and the man in the shadows sprang forward again. "Lowell, show our guests to the solar." Finally, Marchand looked directly at the man, who nodded in understanding before approaching Hawke and her friends.

"If you will please follow me," Lowell said in a meek voice, motioning with his hand to one of the guarded exits that led deeper into the tower.

Hawke hesitated for long enough that she could tell she was making Lowell nervous, and then inclined her head toward the men around the table. "Thank you, My Lords. We await your pleasure," she said briskly and strode away toward the door.

ooXXoo

Lowell led them to a curiously circular alcove with smooth walls and an intricate series of skylights that cast a mottled pattern of light on the tiled floor. A few stuffed couches and mismatched chairs sat in small groups across the floor. Lowell dithered for a few minutes, offering tea that Hawke politely declined, and then bowed himself out through the one door.

As soon as the door shut, Hawke let out an explosive breath. "What in the Void have we gotten ourselves into?" she hissed. "He was looking for–expecting–Anders!"

"We're standing in some deep shit, Hawke," Varric said. "Good news is Blondie isn't here."

"But he very well might have been! And then what?" Hawke paced back a forth a few times clenching her fists. "I thought that we would be under Alistair's protection while we represent him, but now I am less sure. Which means potentially none of us are safe." Her eyes inadvertently slipped to Merrill, who blanched as everyone else looked at her as well.

"We'll be fine," Merrill said weakly, wringing her hands. "They may not even know I'm a . . ." Her voice dropped to a whisper that still carried across the hard surfaces of the solar as she breathed, "mage."

Cullen snorted. "Any templar worth his salt could smell the magic on you the moment you stepped across the threshold. It's more a question of whether or not they want to cross Hawke. And Alistair. Ser Germaine gives me hope that they will consider the request."

"But, that goldenboy in there gives me the shivers," Isabela said. "I thought he was going to smite Torrin for a minute."

"Despite their attempt at appearances to the contrary, they definitely knew we were coming and likely why," Fenris added. "The question then is why haven't they already made a decision about our proposal?"

Hawke pulled at her lower lip in frustration. "Good point. So what are they really discussing out there? Whether to come to the talks or whether to kill us out of hand?"

"It seems for once I am the voice of optimism among us," Cullen said with a frown. "I don't sense a unity of purpose from them. The new Lord Seeker apparently rules with an iron fist, but they are not fully under his sway. Not all of them at any rate."

"But does that matter if he's in charge?" Isabela countered.

"Of course it matters. Look at Kirkwall. Meredith did not exert her will unopposed," Cullen said.

"But that wasn't until the very end, sweetness, when it was almost too late," Isabela purred.

Cullen scowled at the pirate, but Hawke intervened first, saying wearily, "Enough. We know that even one man against the tide can sometimes make all the difference. But is Germaine that man, or is he just chasing his own agenda? We know too little to engage in meaningful speculation at this point."

Everyone fell into a sullen silence as they considered their fate, and waited. Finally, Merrill roused herself and said, "Maybe we should have taken up that man on the offer tea after all."

Varric chuckled. "Not a bad idea, Daisy."

She beamed at him and then walked toward the door, but when she tried the handle, nothing happened. She pulled on it again and then looked back at the group in panic.

Hawke strode to the door to try it herself, followed by Varric who took a professional look at the lock and swore. "What?" Hawke asked him.

"This is nice work. No wonder we didn't hear him locking it. I can get through it, but it'll take some time. If that's what we want to do . . ." He left his suggestion of picking the lock and escaping hanging in the air.

Hawke took a deep breath which didn't seem to quite fill her lungs and then a second and a third. Her first instinct was to do anything they could to escape the locked room and take their chances with offending their templar hosts. Anything to be free of this new trap and to avoid leading them to Anders after all this time.

She attempted another deep breath and the panicky feeling in the pit of her stomach yawned wide for a moment. She gulped for air, which still was not enough.

_So what shall we discuss today, Marian?_

"Grace?"

Cullen's concerned voice came as if from a distance, but it was enough to ground her back in the here and now. She took another fortifying breath, in and out, and nodded.

"We stay put for now," she said. "We don't know yet the meaning of this. We are in a Circle Tower where even the mages are locked in. Maybe this is protocol." She glanced at Cullen.

"It could be," he said, considering her implied question. "We would never have confined esteemed guests at either Kinloch Hold or the Gallows, but these are different times and the templars are at war." He shrugged. "I honestly don't know. But it's possible this is a mere precaution on their part with ostensibly dangerous guests."

Hawke nodded again, using the simple motion to coax her rapidly beating heart to slow. "We bide our time for now. But stay vigilant." Then she ducked her head and walked away from the others, still working to diffuse the waves of panic that continued to lap at her sanity. She was not going to last in this room for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had hoped to get this chapter out early, but alas, did not. Happy Holidays and thanks for reading! Next up: Chapter 19: Gambit.


	19. Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke, Cullen and friends finally escape their locked room and finish their negotiations with the templars before moving on to find the mages.

_Jainen  
_ _Ferelden_

Cullen gave Hawke a few moments alone before approaching her where she stood apart from the others in the Tower's solar. The look of terror had only lasted a second, but he had seen it often enough to recognize that this situation was dredging up dangerous memories best left buried. Plus feelings about Anders that Cullen would have preferred remain only memories.

Hawke had turned toward the wall with her back to the room and wrapped her arms tightly across her body, like she literally was holding herself together.

Cullen slipped his hands over her shoulders. "How are you holding up?"

"Oh, I'm fine."

He wet his lower lip and mustered his courage to address her fears, and his own. "You're worried about Anders."

She sighed and slipped her hands up over his on her shoulders. "I'm worried about all of us. But, yes, especially him. I hate that I can't tell if we've just walked into a trap meant for him. Another trap." She made a frustrated sound deep in her throat. "I wish I knew where he was, and yet I have to be grateful, again, that I don't know. Just in case."

Cullen's resentment toward Anders burned anew that Hawke was being called upon again to protect the mage at the risk of her own safety and peace of mind. Even in absentia, Anders was in her thoughts, and maybe her heart.

"I'm sure Anders is safe," Cullen said, schooling his expression to hide his true feelings. "If they expected him to be here, then clearly they still do not know where to look."

"True." She didn't sound convinced, the hollow despondency in her voice the mirror of those days after their encounter in Gwaren. Cullen's anger surged impotently that after all these weeks, Hawke could backslide so easily, and there was so little he could do.

He turned her around to face him, still holding her shoulders. "I won't let them harm you this time," he said fiercely. "Not ever. Certainly not on his account."

The defeated look in her eyes receded as she gazed at him, surprised at his fervor. She searched his face and her eyes softened. "You don't have to worry about me."

"It's what I do, Grace."

She swallowed hard and then, with a tiny smile, said, "Then I'll try to give you less cause to worry."

He cupped her face, brushing her cheekbone with his thumb. "Don't make promises you can't keep." He grinned and could feel the veil of sadness lifting from her as she smiled back.

She took his hand, pressed a kiss to the center of his palm, and then laced her fingers together with his, watching them slowly knit together until their two hands were like one. "Let's figure out how to get out of here," she said.

Head held high, Hawke walked them back toward the others, hand inseparably locked in Cullen's.

ooXXoo

An hour must have passed while they went round and round without coming to a resolution on whether or not they should attempt to escape the locked room. Cullen had continued to argue that locking them in could merely be a safety protocol for this tower, especially since the circles seemed to essentially function as bonafide prisons now. On the other hand, Isabela, backed by Fenris's spare but incendiary comments, was ready to start her own war with the templars. Hawke was starting to worry that Cullen and Isabela would come to blows when suddenly the door opened of its own accord, making everyone jump.

The lock had again made nary a whisper, suggesting even more strongly that the mechanism might involve magic and no moving parts that Varric could have picked anyway.

Lowell walked in, bobbing his head several times obsequiously. "The Lord Seeker will see you now." The man waited patiently with clasped hands, and gave no indication that there was anything out of the ordinary with their wait in the solar. Hawke briefly considered the notion that they had been mistaken about the door, until she remembered how many times they had each tried to open it unsuccessfully.

She exchanged a long look with Cullen, who only tilted his head slightly to the side in resignation. "Ready as we'll ever be," she said at last.

"Which isn't saying much," Varric grumbled as he followed her in the wake of Marchand's man.

Lowell led them back through the tight corridors of the tower and into the original room where the Lord Seeker and his men awaited them.

Hawke tried to read their expressions, looking for clues as to their disposition, but most were stony faced. She couldn't tell what this might mean, especially since the Lord Seeker himself appeared to be back in a generous mood. He smiled sunnily at them, although now Hawke could see the slimy calculation behind his careful posturing.

"Yes, come in," Marchand said in his melodious voice.

Hawke walked forward to face him, and her friends filed in at her back, giving her strength. She glanced over at the table again and found she couldn't catch Germaine's eye. She turned back to Marchand with an uneasy feeling. "Is everything all right, My Lord?"

"Of course. I apologize for the delay, but it was necessary."

"And the lock on the door to the solar? Was that necessary, too?" she asked before she could stop herself. Lowell tensed, and glanced surreptitiously at Marchand.

The Lord Seeker only smiled more broadly. "Sadly, yes. We are at war, Champion, with the very mages who still inhabit this Tower. It would be a poor start to the peace talks if I were to allow anything to happen to the King's messengers."

"You are too kind," she murmured at his ready excuse.

"We have discussed your proposal," Marchand said, sitting up straighter. "Given the broad support your king has garnered for this meeting, it behooves the Templar Order to send representatives." He glanced down at the table and the documents Hawke had delivered. "The one assurance missing here is that the mage leadership will also attend." He looked at Hawke expectantly, a strange tension in him that she couldn't understand.

"Yes, My Lord, we have yet to approach the mages, but I personally can assure you that I will do everything in my power to ensure that they also attend. This is why Alistair asked me to get involved. We merely felt we should come to you first."

Marchand steepled his hands before his lips and considered her for a moment, unknown thoughts flitting behind his hooded eyes. "So you haven't spoken to them yet."

"That is our next step."

"And, naturally, you know where they are."

Her pulse sped up and she tried her best not to squirm under his close scrutiny. "We have some strong leads that I anticipate will allow us to speak with them presently." Hawke knew she was being evasive, but there were no real assurances she could give him.

"At what point will we know if you are successful? I dare say it's rather a waste of our time to show up to a negotiating table that is empty," Marchand pressed. His tone remained reasonable, his smile open, but his eyes glittered dangerously with almost a hint of power there. Hawke's flutters of panic unaccountably returned as he locked eyes with her. Words turned to ashes on her tongue.

"With your permission, My Lord," Cullen interceded, "we can contact you by sending stone when we are successful. No one wants this meeting to be productive more than we."

At last Marchand, nodded his head in acquiescence. "Very well. If you can ensure that the rebellion leaders will be in attendance, then we will also attend. Keep us apprised of your progress."

Hawke almost sagged in relief. "We will."

They continued to discuss other communication instructions and logistical details, but thankfully Cullen took the lead because Hawke could no longer concentrate on these minutiae. Instead, she avoided the Lord Seeker's attempt to catch her eye again while nodding in most of the right places when Cullen deferred to her. She was relieved when the conversation came to an end and she could finally escape.

Cullen bowed to the Lord Seeker, and when Hawke didn't follow suit, Cullen placed a hand at the small of her back as a prompt. "Oh," she muttered, and bowed as well, since her armor was not suited to a curtsy.

Marchand's diplomatic mask remained in place, but his eyes followed her hesitation. "Safe journeys and Maker watch over you," he said in parting.

"Maker watch over us all," Germaine said softly, also inclining his head at them.

"Good day, My Lords," Hawke said in a clear strong voice before turning on her heel and striding out quickly at what she hoped was still a decorous pace.

ooXXoo

As soon as they were back on the ship, Hawke urged Isabela to weigh anchor as soon as possible, but the pirate demurred, pointing out that apparently the tides weren't right and she needed supplies and too many other things that frustrated Hawke beyond reason.

Walking through the village of Jainen had been an exercise in paranoia for Hawke, as every shadow, every lowered glance, seemed to present a threat. Knowing that the templars had their fingers in every corner of the island, she couldn't shake the feeling that the very town itself was watching them as they made their way back to Isabela's ship.

"I don't want to hear excuses. I just want us out of here," Hawke snapped, seeing the surprise in her friend's face at her rudeness.

A wrinkle appeared between Isabela's perfect brows. "I promise we will leave as soon as we can, Hawke, but is there a reason for such haste?" Isabela asked in puzzlement.

Hawke looked around and saw Isabela's surprise reflected in the faces of her first mate, Merrill and Varric, who stood nearby. Suddenly feeling very weary, Hawke rubbed a hand over her eyes. "I . . . I'm sorry. I must just be tired. Please, just get us underway as soon as you can." She retreated, passing Cullen and avoiding the concern in his eyes.

Everyone gave her a wide berth as she escaped to their refuge at the stern of the ship. She took several deep breaths and willed herself to find patience with the delays, but she couldn't shake the nagging compulsion to leave Jainen as quickly as possible.

Hawke turned over and over in her mind's eye their encounter with the Lord Seeker, searching for the cause behind her sudden anxiety. She couldn't deny that something about him had unnerved her to her very core. He was a very powerful man, like many, and power naturally made you a dangerous adversary. But with Marchand, it was something more. She just could not put her finger on it yet.

Was it because he had asked about Anders? Marchand had not threatened the mage directly, but the fact that the de facto head of the Templar Order had expressed such interest was a very bad sign. Hawke had dodged such attempts more times than she could count over the past three years, but rarely had she been so utterly within someone's power when it had happened. She shivered, her thoughts skittering away from memories of the silver-eyed man and his similarly slippery questions.

Maybe that was what had unnerved her. That Marchand had reminded her in small ways of that man. The way he steepled his hands. The chill in his gaze.

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms against a sudden feeling of cold.

There was a soft step behind her and her gray blanket was draped across her shoulders. She turned around to see Cullen frowning deeply in concern, but he remained a step away. "So much for that promise not to worry me," he said.

Without a word, she tucked herself against his chest and his arms immediately closed around her blanketed form, holding her closely as she started to shiver. He rubbed a hand up and down her back, warming her but also soothing her. He pressed his lips to her hair and then tucked her head under his chin, rocking her gently.

She listened to his heartbeat, and let its regularity and the rhythmic motion calm her nerves, while his body heat eventually stopped her shivering.

"Cullen, I—" she started.

"Sssh, you don't have to explain. Soon we will be away from this place. Isabela will take care of it."

She relaxed into his embrace with a sigh and closed her eyes, grateful to just let go for a moment.

ooXXoo

The ship departed on the evening tide without provisioning. Since West Hill wasn't very far, Isabela had reasoned, she would instead take on supplies there. Once they were underway, Hawke felt much better and could stop looking over her shoulder.

She tried again to explain, to apologize, to Cullen later that night while they were wrapped together in his blankets, but he only smiled in understanding. "I know. You have been running from templars for years. It only makes sense that our meeting today would dredge up those experiences. Especially those you're trying to forget." He ran his hand up and down her bare arm as she lay across his chest. "Believe me. I understand. And so do your friends."

"I also just can't shake the feeling that the Lord Seeker isn't being completely honest. There's something else going on."

"It's hard to say. For now I will remain optimistic that he is treating with us honestly."

She could not share his optimism, but there was really no more to say. "He agreed to our terms, so I suppose his participation is out of our hands now."

"Yes. Now to find the mages. If they can be found. Marchand was right about one thing. That is a huge weakness in our plan."

She chuckled. "True. But that's never stopped us before."

He laughed as well and pulled her up and over him so he could see her face. "You do lead the charmed life, don't you, Grace?" he said, his voice dropping to a seductive rumble.

She gave him a teasing kiss and the curtain of her hair brushed over the bare skin of his chest. "It's more likely ignorance and dumb luck." She kissed him again, pulling back only briefly to add, "But we can go with charmed." She dropped a kiss on the tip of his nose. "After all," she murmured, pressing another light kiss over one of his closed eyelids, "it led me to you." She moved to his other eye and repeated the languorous kiss. "So maybe you're right."

He threaded his fingers in her hair and pulled her firmly to his lips.

ooXXoo

_West Hill  
Ferelden_

Many tales were told about the fortress at West Hill, which stood crumbling on a steep cliff overlooking the northern Fereldan coast. With its checkered history, from ancient watchtower against marauding corsairs, to the site of Maric Theirin's infamous defeat in his struggle for the throne, to one of Ferelden's most haunted castle, West Hill had ignited the imagination of generations of young Fereldans. No longer manned as a defensive outpost, the enormous fortress had fallen into disrepair along with its labyrinth of tunnels that had been used for supplies during the rebellion against Orlais. Over the years, the secluded stronghold had developed a bustling seaport at its foot, with a populace drawn to its infamy as well as its strategic position on the shipping lanes.

Upon their arrival, Varric had immediately set out into the town and his favorite backstreet venues to try to pick up the trail of the mage underground. His contacts from Denerim had not been very specific about where in West Hill the mages might be, even suggesting that they might even be at the decrepit fortress itself. So he figured something had gotten lost in translation. But, after two days, he had yet to come across even a whisper.

They had slipped back into the comfort of their usual routine with a new town, and Hawke was holed up in a local tavern to await everyone completing their disparate tasks. Cullen had gone to the Chantry, while Varric had been casing the marketplace, gathering supplies and searching for rumors. Merrill and Fenris were helping Isabela resupply in an excuse to spend more time with her.

Hawke had barely ordered a drink when Varric sauntered through the door of the tavern and plopped heavily onto the bench next to her.

"That was quick," she said.

Varric grunted sourly and then waved at the redheaded barmaid at the next table, who nodded at him with a toothy smile and walked over.

"Sure, it was quick," Varric grumbled to Hawke. "It's quick to talk to people when no one will talk to you. I'm almost starting to think that the townsfolk here are under some kind of geas that prohibits them from talking about the mage rebellion."

The barmaid eyed Varric with interest and waited for a break in conversation before asking, "So what can I get you, hon?"

"Whatever she's having," he replied with a vague wave toward Hawke's drink before continuing to vent about his lack of success. "I couldn't even get anyone to speculate on where the mages might be. Me! I don't know, Hawke, maybe I'm getting rusty."

After a pause, the barmaid nodded and then walked to the bar with an exaggerated sway of her hips. But Varric didn't seem to notice.

"It's not you, Varric," Hawke said, trying to cheer him up. "Who wants to admit they are sympathetic to the mage cause these days? Even in Ferelden."

"I know. But where does that leave us? The only thing I can think of now is that we head into the wilderness toward the fortress itself and hope that maybe the mages are encamped somewhere nearby."

Hawke shrugged. "It's as good a plan as any."

Varric looked around. "Templar's not back yet?"

"Not yet," she replied, unable to stop the smile that sprang to her face.

"Ah. You've got it bad."

"No!" She smiled again foolishly. "Maybe? What do you mean?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm happy for you. It's just . . . unexpected."

"Unexpected how?"

"Mmm, hard to explain. Cullen's not as bright and shiny as he once was."

Hawke considered this comment before answering, picturing Cullen from his days as Knight-Captain in Kirkwall. He had always been impossibly handsome with a rueful smile at her misadventures, but now she knew that the smile had hidden his lingering demons. Demons that had simply multiplied with his incarceration and betrayal by the Order. Hawke had seen firsthand the evidence of his suffering written across his skin, and yet Cullen had just grown stronger from his ordeals. No longer the idealized knight that had intrigued her in Kirkwall, he was instead a real human being, which now made him irresistible.

"True," she answered thoughtfully. "In Kirkwall, he always seemed larger than life. But, you know, I like that he has flaws."

"He always had flaws, Hawke," Varric said, smirking. "Now they're just more obvious."

"You know what I mean. You don't have to worry that I've been dazzled by some handsome knight in shining armor. There's a lot more to him than I once realized. And, he and I, we're alike in many ways. He . . . he understands, and doesn't run away from me. From who am I now."

"To be honest, I wish you'd set your expectations a little higher, Hawke. Another lost soul isn't who I would choose for you." Varric sighed and looked down at his hands, which were clasped on the table. "I haven't seen you like this since you first met Anders. And we all know how that worked out."

She laughed at his comparison. "Varric, I don't think I need to worry about Cullen keeping deep dark secrets and dragging me unwittingly into another cataclysm."

Varric gave her long look, making her pause at the look of uncharacteristic concern on his face. "What?" she asked cautiously.

"Hawke, I just want you to be careful."

"Of what, exactly?"

"Cullen. He may not be Anders, but rest assured, he has secrets. There is a dark side to that man now, after all that he's been through, and I would hate for you to be blindsided by it this time."

"You think he might be hiding something from me?" she asked with a doubting frown. How could Varric possibly know what Cullen had and had not shared with her anyway?

"Indubitably. What I don't know is the nature of those secrets and whether they pose any danger to you directly."

She pressed her lips together, not liking the turn of this conversation. "Just because he's a private person doesn't mean that he's hiding things from me specifically."

Varric gave her a measuring look and grunted. "Whatever you say, Hawke. Only please keep in mind that everyone has secrets, for good or bad. I just want to make sure Cullen's don't come back to bite you in the ass."

The barmaid finally showed up at that moment to deliver Varric's drink, which ended their conversation. But a nagging doubt settled in the back of Hawke's mind from the hollow ring of truth in Varric's caution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting to pick up a little speed with the next act of the story. Thanks for reading! Next: **Chapter 20: The Maker's Work** , where our heroes will run into some unexpected, old friends during their search for the mage underground.


	20. The Maker's Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen has an epiphany at the West Hill Chantry, and he and Hawke have an encounter with some old and then some new friends.

_West Hill  
Ferelden_

Cullen hurried through the streets toward the West Hill Chantry, hands buried deep in his pockets. In his right hand, he turned over and over the scrap of parchment on which he would update Cassandra and Leliana on what happened with the templars. He might have waited until he also had news to share about the mages and only risk one trip to the Chantry, but it was simply taking too long to find the underground. Now more than ever he wanted to avoid Leliana becoming impatient and seeking him out.

As he walked, he mentally composed his missive, since he had not been able to find a private moment aboard Isabela's ship to write it. He made a point of sticking to the bare facts about their progress, many of which Leliana's spies no doubt ferreted out themselves. Facts that Hawke likely would have shared herself if she had known of the Chantry support for her mission. So, he was not divulging real secrets.

Except that he was by spying without Hawke's knowledge or consent.

Just thinking about her, Cullen's heart swelled. He could not get enough of simply watching her, her grace, her strength, the way she smiled at him when he caught her eye. But the closer he got to Hawke, the worse he felt about his deceit, and yet the more he wanted to get closer still. An honorable man would disclose his misdeeds, or at least, keep her clear of his web of intrigues. Instead, he hovered near her light, like a moth dreams of the dawn. Selfishly, he allowed himself the indulgence of her regard even though it was fleeting—especially because it was fleeting—because once she knew the truth, it would be over. She would never look at him the same again and that was fine. He did not deserve her love anyway, so it was never meant to last. For now she needed him and he would do everything he could to help her complete her mission while keeping her safe and cherished in the process.

He was wistful for a moment that things could have been different. That he could have gotten to know her this way back in Kirkwall, when things were simpler and he was still worth knowing. But, then they might not have connected in the same way, since she also had been a different woman, with fewer of the concerns she carried now. Plus, she had been with Anders at the time. He sighed at the reminders. Even then, it would not have worked out between them.

All he had was now, and so he greedily treasured every minute she spent on him while waiting for the inevitable truth to come out and for the adoration in her gaze to turn to hate. She could not hate him any more than he hated himself anyway.

Finally, he arrived at West Hill's small Chantry. It was constructed out of wood that had a slight green tinge and could be no older than a decade or two, young by Chantry standards. In the interior, the wall sconces smoked slightly and a haze hung in the air around the upper rafters, also dingy from the years of exposure to smoke.

He made his way to the small confessional and slipped between threadbare velvet curtains. Sitting down, he immediately pulled out his inkwell and started to scratch out his message on the scrap of paper from his pocket.

He had just finished writing when the screen snapped open.

"The one who repents shall know true peace. Confess before the Maker and be absolved of your sin," an older woman's voice mumbled with a yawn.

"Bless me, sister, for I have sinned."

"Mother," she said.

"M-mother, my apologies. B-bless me, mother, for I have sinned," he stammered. He had never been corrected during a confession before. The Revered Mother was taking confessions? It was a small chantry indeed.

He was unsure how to continue, or if he even wanted to delve into his latest issues. The silence drew out and he considered just delivering the message and being done with it.

"It seems you have something heavy on your chest, son," she prompted.

He looked down at his hands in his lap, clutching the duplicitous missive. "I am in love," he blurted out.

"And in what way is this sinful?" she asked, sounding almost cranky.

"Because I haven't been fully truthful with her."

"Ah. I see your dilemma. Love cannot weather lies."

"No. And I don't think ours will," he said sullenly.

"You could try to remedy your mistakes. Tell her the truth."

"I can't," he whispered.

"Can't? Or won't? Humph. Sounds like you haven't even tried to make things right."

He had no answer to this. The mother was surprisingly cantankerous. What alternative did have? He was locked into his deal with Leliana and Cassandra, literally, since if he ignored their orders, he would be back in his cell. Then again, he had already done most of what he had promised. All that remained was to talk the mages into coming to the meeting at Fort Drakon, which he would do at this point regardless of his deal. There was no way he would let Hawke face them alone. Maybe the Chantry would be willing to let him stop spying at least.

"Well, the Maker can forgive you for being a coward. But you need to do your part." She yawned again and muttered, "Recite Transfigurations Twelve and Thirteen, then rest at the Maker's hand and be forgiven. Andraste's grace be with you."

He heard the sound of movement on the other side of the screen, so he cried, "Wait!" before she could leave. "I . . . _The dark star rises in the east, but the Light shall endure."_

Her indistinct form visibly started in surprise. "What did you say?"

He repeated the phrase, while scrambling to pull out his inkwell again. He scribbled furiously an addendum at the bottom, shook it dry, and pressed the seal into it. He then stuffed it unceremoniously along the side of the screen.

He held it there for a tense moment before he felt it slip out of his fingers.

"Oh," the sister said with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. "One of these things. Very well, son. Good luck."

He sagged back against the wall of the confessional as she left the box. Now that he had time to consider his recklessness and the rash words he had added to his note, he was no longer sure they were such a good idea.

_p.s. This will be my last of these communications, in the interest of maintaining trust with Hawke._

At least he had stopped himself from actually adding: _I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I have fallen in love with her and can no longer betray her._ He shook his head. No matter how it was phrased, his postscript was not going to go over well. He could easily picture Leliana's annoyance at reading it, which made him smile a little, even if he feared the consequences. Consequences or not, his soul was lighter for having taken a step toward the truth. There may be no redemption for him, but at least this felt like the right path.

He left the confessional and approached the statue of Andraste near the small dais. Andraste smiled encouragingly down at him, her soft features radiant in the play of light from the candles at her feet. He knelt down, lit his own candle, and began to pray.

_"O Maker, hear my cry:_  
Guide me through the blackest nights  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
Make me to rest in the warmest places." 

As he spoke, the noise from the town receded and a transcendent stillness filled him, a peace so sublime it felt like the Maker Himself was listening. An exquisite joy shot through his heart, warming him from head to toe. He concentrated harder on the rest of the verses and lost himself in the rapture of the Chant. Like when he had sung together with Hawke, the words sang through him, lifting his spirit and lightening his heart. When he had said the final words, he opened his eyes and, raising a hand to cheek, wiped away the wetness he felt there.

He gazed up at Andraste who still smiled ethereally down upon him. "Thank you," he whispered to her around the tightness in his throat.

ooXXoo

_Jainen  
Ferelden_

For the first time since he had started serving Colin Marchand, Lowell hesitated to do his duty. In the days since Hawke had visited Jainen, Colin had sent Lowell daily to the sending stone in the highest chamber of the tower. Each day, Lowell trekked up the many stairs to check, and returned back down as many stairs with the news that there was no news on the mage parlay. Today was no different, and as Lowell drew near to the great hall, he paused before his final steps, dreading delivering this news.

Colin's displeasure took many forms, and Lowell enjoyed his role as Colin's right hand, even in these matters. But Colin had been in a rare state since Hawke departed. Or rather, since Hawke had arrived at the tower without the mage Anders.

The plan had been so simple there had been no need for a plan. Spies in the royal palace in Denerim had told them well in advance that the Champion would be coming, and why. After the years spent painstakingly tracking down the woman in order to bring the terrorist Anders to justice, it was poetic that she would deliver herself into their hands, all in the name of peace with the mages. After the sighting in Gwaren, their assumption that Hawke and Anders were traveling together was sound, even if there had been no news of him at the palace. After all, it was plausible that a known terrorist would avoid a meeting with the ruler of the land. The rumors of sightings across the Bannorn had been inconclusive, so their assumption had continued: find Hawke, you find Anders. The arrival of Hawke in Jainen, marching up to the tower doors with a lanky blond man in tow, had been cause for celebration. Premature celebration, as it turned out.

Lowell scrunched up his eyes and winced again at their miscalculation. His miscalculation. Everyone had been paying the price since then. Lowell found himself actually pitying the blond serving woman who was no doubt regretting now her rise as Colin's primary plaything. Lowell had never before feared for himself while in Colin's service, but that had all changed.

Lowell took a deep breath to brace himself before plunging across the threshold into the great hall. The room was empty and the lighting lowered until there was only a small circle of illumination around Colin from the fire. He sat slumped down in a highbacked chair before the cavernous fireplace, watching the flames lick at the crisping logs while leaning on one closed fist propped on the arm of the chair.

Colin stopped at his elbow and waited to be noticed. He waited at least another five minutes before Colin stirred. "What news?" his master said without turning.

"None, My Lord." Lowell tried to keep his voice steady, but even he could hear the slight tremor.

Colin did not respond, so after a minute, Lowell offered, "It had only been a few days, My Lord. It is unlikely that Hawke would have a resolution on the mages yet."

"As you say. And the mage?"

Lowell risked a glance at Colin, whose lowered eyes remained fixed on the flames, which in turn danced in reflection there.

Lowell swallowed in dread. "Th-there also have been no additional sightings of Anders. Nothing since that skirmish near Highever. The Agent continues to search the northern Bannorn and the port towns. Without the Champion protecting him, he is unlikely to get far."

Colin's raised fist crashed down against the chair, making Lowell jump. "He seems to have already gotten quite far without the Champion protecting him, Lowell!" Finally he looked at his servant with eyes blazing in fury.

"Y-yes, I know. I'm sorry, My Lord," he said quickly, dropping his eyes to the ground and fighting the urge to take a step backwards.

Colin exploded to his feet and paced before the fireplace, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Anders evades us. Again. Hawke in my grasp. And I let her go. The architects of my grief, Elthina's murderers, remain at large and continue to thwart me at every turn," he said through gritted teeth. He steepled his hands before his face, nostrils flaring, as he strode back and forth. Lowell could only watch and make himself as inconspicuous as possible in the face of Colin's rare expression of anger.

"Three years of failure," Colin said, stopping at last to stare deeply into the flames over his tented fingers. "And the only consequence for the tragedies in Kirkwall will be a pardon for all magekind." He laughed softly, the sound frightening as it edged on maniacal.

Lowell started to sweat, desperate for another distraction so the word _failure_ would not be turned his way. His miscalculations had been even worse than Colin knew. Lowell's covert observations of the Champion while she was locked in the solar suggested that part of the reason she was no longer with Anders was that she was no longer _with_ Anders. Her obvious involvement with the disgraced templar significantly diminished her usefulness in the search for the terrorist.

Lowell swallowed heavily and stammered, "B-b-but, even without Anders, w-we now know where the mage underground will be. That is still a success!"

"Bah," Colin said in a dismissive exhalation of air, "now the mages merely will join us to grovel at the peace table with the King of Ferelden and the Champion. Germaine and the others were ready to decimate the mage rebellion, and now at the first test, they neuter themselves and abandon their principles." Colin snorted. "Where are their _priorities_ now?"

"Or . . ." Lowell thought fast about what might give Colin hope, and redirect his anger. "Could this instead be an opportunity to restore order, but on a grander scale?"

Colin remained with his back to Lowell, but after a minute said, "I'm listening."

Lowell cleared his throat. "Anders was just a symptom of the greater problem with the mage rebellion. Cut off the head of the underground, and the body withers. Including mages like Anders." Lowell held his breath as Colin considered his words.

"So, you are suggesting we violate the terms of the parlay, violate the very articles of war, and take out the mage leadership at the peace talks?"

Lowell could not properly see Colin's expression, so could not tell if he was truly offended by this idea or not. Taking a chance, he pressed on. "A small price to pay, My Lord, for the change you want to see in the world. Without the mage leadership coordinating their efforts, the local rebel cells will all splinter. The Templar Order can create a new, lasting peace on its own terms."

Colin was silent again, his only movement the dart of eyes across the snap and flow of flame.

" _We will perform the Maker's work as it was meant to be done, as we see fit_ ," Colin quoted from his predecessor's now infamous letter to the Divine severing the Seeker and Templar allegiance to the Chantry. Colin nodded, lost in thought, and a smile curled on his sensuous lips. "The mage underground is, after all, our _priority_. Yes, Lowell, I think you might be onto something."

Lowell breathed an internal sigh of relief, and started to formulate plans that would keep Colin's attention on punishing the mages. And, not himself.

ooXXoo

_West Hill_  
Ferelden

Cullen rushed through the crowded streets and finally arrived at the marketplace that faced on the tavern where Hawke awaited him. Merchants called out to passersby while farmers sold produce from the back of rickety carts and craftsmen haggled from more permanent wooden stalls. Cullen brushed past several attempts to claim his attention, too filled with wonder and excitement to be diverted.

He entered the tavern and several patrons eyed him suspiciously, but he ignored them, searching for Hawke. Finally he saw her near a distant window, deep in conversation with Varric. Cullen wove his way through the maze of crowded tables, and half way there was intercepted by a redheaded woman holding a tray who asked him if he wanted a drink. He shook his head in answer and continued to Hawke's table.

When he drew near, Hawke finally looked up and her face lit up so brightly that he felt like no one else existed in the room.

"Grace," he said urgently, coming to her side.

"What?" She smiled expectantly, catching some of his excitement.

He pulled her to her feet and into his arms. He did not know how put his experience at the Chantry into words so instead he kissed her, trying to show her instead.

"What was that for?" she asked breathlessly when he released her.

Before Cullen could try to explain again, Varric suddenly cried out in rage and jumped to his feet. Cullen spun around to see three hooded men dressed in non-descript black burst through the tavern door and headed straight for them. The same men from Gwaren.

The other tavern goers scattered with screams and shouts of terror, running out the doors or up the stairs to escape. The men in black ignored everyone but Cullen, Hawke and Varric, and moved in unison to encircle them, swords held low. Like last time, the assailants were perfectly disciplined and silent as the grave.

Varric had already drawn Bianca, and so immediately got off a volley of quarrels, but the men were too close and easily evaded them. Cullen and Hawke both drew their blades and stood back to back with Varric, each facing one of the men on either side of them.

Cullen parried a feint to his head and at the last minute, deflected a counterstrike to his left side that he normally would have blocked with his shield. He wasn't foolish enough to go completely unarmed to the Chantry, but the one concession he had made was to leave his shield behind, a choice he now deeply regretted. It helped to have Hawke to his left flank so that at least he wasn't completely open on that side.

He could see her out of the corner of his eye, blocking a rapid series of strikes, one of which slipped past her defense and scored her thigh. She cried out in pain, but beat back her assailant's following blow with an elbow strike to his face. The man staggered backwards and shook his head to clear it, giving her a respite as she started to favor her leg.

"Hawke! Are you okay?" Cullen cried, turning in case he needed to help cover her.

"I'm fine," she gritted.

One of the mystery men took the opportunity to try to hamstring Varric, whose flank was now open when Cullen turned toward Hawke. Varric caught the blow with his crossbow, which made an unexpected clang and then a wrenching sound, followed by a string of curses from Varric.

Cullen turned back to intercede and caught the man in the ribs under his arm pit, which he had left open when he went for Varric. The man immediately collapsed, dragging Cullen's sword with him. Cullen could feel his sword grate against bone, jarring his own arm as he tried to withdraw his blade. The struggle to free his sword left him vulnerable, as a second man swung his sword at Cullen's head.

Time seemed to slow as Cullen fought to raise his own sword, knowing he wouldn't make it in time. As the blow descended toward his neck, Cullen had enough time to regret that he would never be able to share his experience at the Chantry with Hawke. He braced himself, closing his eyes, but the blow never came.

Cullen's eyes flew open in surprise which was matched by the surprise on the hooded man's face the moment before he crumpled to the ground, already dead. Cullen could now see the black, smoking hole in the man's back.

Cullen's eyes swept the tavern and finally found his savior. Standing behind the bar, with hands still extended from the spell she must have cast, was the tavern girl with red hair. In one hand she held a gnarled wooden staff which she was pointing right at Cullen with a determined look on her face that was not wholly friendly. Cullen started to draw in his own power as a precaution, but like in Bremen, felt nothing answer his call.

Behind him, Hawke made quick work of the final hooded man, who slid to the ground as she spun around toward this new source of danger. She maintained her guard and stepped to Cullen's and Varric's side, facing the mage.

The woman had not attacked them, but also had not lowered her staff yet. She looked each of them over with calculating eyes and then settled on Hawke. "You're Marian Hawke?"

"Who wants to know?" Hawke replied, smiling in a flash of teeth that had intimidated countless opponents before.

The mage narrowed her eyes at Hawke. "The mage underground sends its regards," she said before slamming the end of her staff down against the ground. There was a sudden, blinding flash and the roar of a distant explosion, and then Cullen was falling. He reached out toward Hawke, but everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next: **Chapter 21: Underground** , where Hawke and Cullen finally talk with the mages, for better or for worse.


	21. Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Cullen meet with the mage underground at last, although not quite in the manner they expected.

_West Hill  
Ferelden_

Cullen woke up slowly, eyes blinking groggily in the darkness as he tried to recall where he was, and why his arms were twisted so uncomfortably underneath his body. He tried to straighten them, but they wouldn't move. Groggily, he started to worry, but then realized his hands were asleep. As he started to work some sensation back into them, he could recognize that they were also tied behind his back.

He looked around, sure that his eyes were open now, but the room was pitch black. He couldn't see even a glint of light. The darkness was like a black cloth pressing in on his face, and he suddenly had a hard time catching his breath. His heart started to race in panic while the lightless emptiness closed in around him.

He gulped air and shut his eyes, willing himself to focus, like the Revered Mother had taught him. He took several deep breaths and then grabbed hold of one small memory and concentrated on it. Hawke smiling at him, her dimple accentuating the curve of her cheek while the light caught in her green eyes.

_Hawke!_

He kept his eyes shut and instead used his other senses. He was laying on cold, smooth surface, like the stone floor one might find in a larder or dungeon. He listened, and heard soft breathing to his right.

"Hawke?" he called hopefully.

There was no answer, but the rate of breathing changed, like the person was waking up.

"Hawke? Hello?"

He heard a soft groan, and sagged in relief. "Hawke. Are you okay?"

"Cullen?" she asked, sounding half asleep. "Wha—"

"We've been captured. Are you okay? Are you in pain?"

"Pain? Uh, um, n-no," came the unsteady response. He could hear her shifting around, taking stock. "No, I actually feel fine."

"But your leg . . ."

"I know. But, I think . . . I think someone must have healed me."

"Hmm. Hopefully that's a good sign. At least they don't want us dead right away."

"Cullen, where are we?" He could hear her shifting around again, and he imagined her craning her neck around to try to see.

"I don't know."

"Is Varric here?"

"I don't hear anyone else."

"Varric? Varric!" Hawke called, but there was no response.

"Hopefully he got away," Cullen said, trying to sound as confident as he could in the face of the terrible alternative.

"Hopefully."

"What's the last thing you remember?" Cullen asked.

"Um. There was a mage. Son of a bitch! Our server was with the mage underground! She must have overheard Varric and I talking about trying to find them." Hawke trailed off into even more colorful curses.

"That might explain how she knew who you were, but not what she wants with us."

"Who knows. I doubt she could know if we were friend or foe from our brief conversation. Maybe . . . maybe this is just a precaution?"

"Locking us up again for our protection?" Cullen snorted.

"We do seem to elicit that response in people these days."

"Hmm, the templar excuse I can buy. But this is a new level of paranoid to throw potential allies into a dungeon without even speaking to them first."

Hawke chuckled at this. "Anders would get along well with these people."

"If they're a people and not just one person."

"I don't follow."

"I only mean that we don't know who is holding us. Given the mage's remarks, we could be in the dungeon of the mage underground. Or we could be in that woman's cellar for her own nefarious purposes."

Hawke laughed again. "Ah, Cullen, you do have a knack for seeing the worst side of things, don't you?"

"Well, I, well—"

"It's all right, love. It's also a sign of creativity. I can say in all honesty that that possibility would have never occurred to me." She went silent and he could not even hear her breathing. Then she let out an explosive gasp laughter, like she could not hold it in any longer, and laughed loud and hard.

He listened to her gasp for breath as her amusement filled the empty spaces of their prison, and felt his mouth curl into an answering smile. Finally, he joined in, and soon his cramped muscles started to relax and the panicked knot in the pit of his stomach unwound. Maybe this was why Hawke was always so irreverent in tense situations, using humor as a way to combat the anxiety. It was a strategy he had never tried.

"Well, whoever is holding us, the most important thing is for us to get out of here," Hawke said, laughter still coloring her voice.

"True. Can you move closer?" Cullen asked. "I want to see if I can figure out what is binding us."

"I don't . . . maybe." She grunted and shifted, and he also moved in the direction of the noise. He felt a brush again his shoulders and then a knee thudded into his chest.

"Oof," he exclaimed in a rush of air.

"Sorry! That was you?"

"That was my solar plexus, but I'll recover." He scooted closer until he was sure that he was facing her. "Grace," he whispered toward where he hoped her face would be.

"I'm here," she whispered back, close now.

Slowly, he leaned toward her, listening carefully for the sound of her breathing, until his mouth brushed against what seemed to be her cheekbone. He trailed his lips lightly over her skin, the intensity of the sensation heightened by his lack of other senses, and worked his way over until he closed on her mouth. She kissed him back feverishly, pressed hard against him through their one connection.

"Thank the Maker you're all right," he murmured against her lips as he broke the kiss. He touched his forehead to hers, staying close so as not to lose her again in the dark. Her breath fanned warmly against his skin. "We will get out here," he said, just needing to hear it out loud.

"I know."

"Let's see if we can figure out what's binding our hands," he said. "It feels rough like rope. Can you turn over?"

"Yes." But as she started to move they heard a sound, like the distant clang of a door and then tramping feet. "Someone's coming," she said.

Cullen struggled to leverage himself upright, but had not quite succeeded when a faint glow appeared around the edges of what must be the door to their cell. His eyes met Hawke's in the growing illumination. He could now see that she was undamaged if a bit grimier than before, like she had been dragged through the dirt to come here. He could also see that Varric definitely was not with them, nor was there any sign of him in their small cell.

The door clanked and clicked open with a squeal of ancient metal hinges. Torch light streamed in through the open door, illuminating the perfectly square cell where they lay, surrounded by walls of rusted vertical bars. Four grim-looking people entered, one of them the red-haired mage from the tavern looking unsympathetic. Another had a mage's staff slung across his back, while the two remaining men had swords sheathed at their hips.

The men with swords strode toward Cullen and Hawke with purpose, and roughly yanked them to their feet.

"What is the meaning of this? Who are you people?" Cullen demanded, but they ignored his questions.

The red-haired mage watched them warily, but without malice, from her position near the entrance. She motioned to the others with a jerk of her hand toward the door and the stairs Cullen could now see beyond it. The men with swords grabbed Cullen and Hawke by the arms and pulled them along.

Cullen planted his feet and made it more difficult for the man holding his arm, but a quick glance at Hawke made him stop resisting as she shook her head slightly. So he followed sullenly, awaiting his chance.

As they moved away from their cell, it became clear that they had been brought to some kind of fortress. The style of the old stone of the walls was reminiscent of the oldest parts of Kinloch Hold. In contrast to Kinloch, however, this keep was also poorly maintained. They passed collapsed side passages and dodged piles of debris. The disarray, together with the age, led Cullen to the conclusion that Varric's contacts must have been more correct than they realized, and the mage underground was indeed hiding out in the West Hill fortress itself.

Soon they entered parts of the keep that showed more recent signs of occupation. A room with occupied beds and cots. A kitchen with scurrying pages and a scullery maid that stared open-mouthed at their passage. They received more than one nosy stare as they passed by, but their captors remained silent, only prodding them ever forward.

Eventually, they passed through an ornate doorway with Fereldan motifs carved into its lintel. The doorway opened at the end of a long hall with two rows of circular, stone pillars that ran its length and divided the space in uneven thirds. Gathered at one end of the hall, in the open area between the rows of pillars, a small group of people wearing mage robes were talking animatedly in voices that echoed off the smooth stone and made them sound more numerous than they were.

The ginger mage led Hawke and Cullen right up to the group, who continued talking without interruption. A dark-haired elven woman wearing traditional circle robes and holding a staff with a silver cap seemed to be debating another man on the College of Magi through which, historically, the mages had governed themselves even whilst they were confined in Circle Towers across Thedas.

"Even if we win," the man was saying, "the Chantry will never allow mages real freedom. We need to devise a plan of shared governance. Like the College provided!"

The elf snorted derisively. "Your Loyalist prejudices are showing. For a thousand years, we 'shared' our governance with the Chantry. And every time, given the choice, they chose our oppression. That is not shared governance, but slavery."

"Slavery is a harsh word—"

"And the only apt description. But perhaps your privileged shem upbringing makes you unable to recognize it when you see it."

"I will—"

"Enough, Soren," the woman said, cutting him off again. "Your uneducated arguments will leave a poor impression on our guests." Her Orlesian accent made the set down sound even ruder than it would have otherwise. She turned to their group, her expression staying much the same, derisive and bored. Her eyes ran over both Cullen and Hawke, and she focused in on Hawke. "Marian Hawke, thank you for accepting our invitation," she said, smiling like a cat who had caught the canary.

"Funny. I don't recall receiving one," Hawke replied evenly.

The elven woman shrugged. "Sometimes I forget the formalities these days, dogged and hunted as we are. I am sure that is something you, of all people, can understand, yes?"

Hawke just glared at her, so the woman continued. "You and your friend were asking a great many questions about us around the town, so I thought you would be pleased to finally meet us. Especially since we normally treat intruders much more harshly."

Hawke laughed at this. "Then I would hate to see how you treat friends."

The woman's flippancy disappeared, and her eyes flashed dangerously. "The mage underground has no friends. Only enemies and those who can be of use to our cause. You will need to decide which you are."

"I don't fight for the mage cause any longer," Hawke said, baring her teeth in an approximation of a smile. "It tends to start wars."

The elf's face darkened in anger, and a flicker of arcane power started to arc along her staff in response. Out of instinct, Cullen pulled on his own power from deep within his veins, which this time finally answered. It surged through him, unexpectedly strong and chaotic, boiling through him in search of magic to annul.

The elf immediately felt it and turned hateful eyes upon him. "Templar!" she hissed. Before he could direct or even control any of his power, she turned hers upon him, channeling the lightning from her staff into a bolt that knocked him off his feet.

His teeth chattered and his muscles trembled as the shock ran through him and overrode control of his limbs for a second. He heard Hawke shout something, but the spasms had also jammed his eyes shut so he could only wait for them to subside. When the effects had finally passed, he staggered up to one knee, but got no further as the sound he had prayed to Blessed Andraste never to hear again suddenly buzzed to life. The crackle of pure energy taking form in the air, with the hint of ozone as it arced around him. It was accompanied by a loud slam as a glowing wall of pink magic erupted in a circle, confining him at its center.

ooXXoo

Hawke struggled against the three men who held her, trying to reach Cullen, but it was no use. A pulsing cage of magic sprang to life around him and Cullen immediately froze, still down on one knee. His face grew stricken, the hollows under his eyes more pronounced, and his breathing quickened. A trickle of sweat dripped down his temple. Then another. His mouth opened, trying at words, but no sound came out. His eyes remained fixed in one spot, wide open and fully dilated.

Hawke watched helplessly as Cullen was forced to relive his worst nightmare. He made a soft keening sound, like that of a wounded animal, and she almost wept to hear it.

"No, not a cage. Please. Not this way," Hawke pleaded softly, the fight in her simply gone. She looked at the elf in defeat. "Please."

The woman's eyes darted back and forth from Hawke to Cullen, clearly puzzled at Cullen's extreme reaction to being caged. Searching for her own response, the elf settled on indignation.

"Why would you bring a templar here? Did you really think this would bolster your credibility with us?" she snorted. "We know you come from the King. We know you want to try broker a peace with the templars. So you bring one into our midst?"

"No! It's not what you think!" Hawke said quickly.

"Is your message from your king a ruse, and you try to finish us instead by bringing a templar spy?"

"Cullen isn't a templar any longer."

"Ha!" the elf scoffed. "Then why was he trying to attack my magic? You don't live in a Circle Tower and not have a sense for when a templar is about to hurt you." Her lip curled up in an angry snarl. "That was your last mistake." She lifted her hands and magic sparked from her fingertips.

"Fiona, stop!" A voice rang out through the hall, followed by someone striding quickly toward them.

Hawke's jaw dropped in shock. The elf did not seem old enough to be the famous Fiona, former Grey Warden, former Grand Enchanter of the College in Cumberland. Hawke reassessed her, noting now the woman's greying temples and the need to tread more carefully. But more shocking was the new speaker, who stood glaring at Fiona while also shooting slightly guilty glances at Hawke.

Anders was a little thinner than the last time she had seen him, if that were possible. He had switched back to his accustomed style from his days in Kirkwall, with a long black coat that snapped in front and grey feathers adorning the shoulders. It was almost like he was trying to get recognized, like she was doing with her champion-inspired armor, but for different reasons. Or perhaps the same reasons.

_What is he doing here?_

She thought back to the story she had been told for him leaving, related through Cullen. Something about not wanting to participate in her mad quest to save the world. Yet here he was, in the heart of the mage rebellion.

Was he finally following up on his conspiracies and hopes from before he blew up the Kirkwall Chantry and changed the world? But why wouldn't he have told her?

Too many questions without answer shuffled through her mind. She did not bother to hide the shock on her face, it was too intense, but she could only focus on the practicalities of here and now.

"Anders, please. Please, they have to release Cullen. This is too much."

Cullen remained on his knees, but now had clasped his hands in front of him, rocking forward and back, and muttered a continuous string of words under his breath, something that sounded very familiar. " _Though all before me is shadow . . ."_ she could make out.

"Please," she begged again to no one in particular, her heart breaking all over again.

Anders gave Hawke an inscrutable look, like he could not understand her question. He turned back to Fiona. "Hawke is only trying to help. You should hear her out."

"Should I?" Fiona laughed, but it was a bitter sound.

"You know why she is here. I warned you she would come. You wouldn't have brought her here if you didn't want to hear what she has to say." Anders's chin jutted out belligerently as he spoke. "So, yes, you should hear her out."

Fiona glared at Anders, suggesting he was getting through to her, so Hawke tried again. "Fiona, please, Cullen isn't a templar spy. He isn't one of them any longer. He's with me. Please release him."

After a pause, Fiona said grudgingly, "And if I do, one false move, and you will all die. Including you, Terrorist of Kirkwall." Fiona jabbed an accusatory finger at Anders. "Do not think your stunts will protect you here, as you have done us no favors."

"I struck a blow for mage freedom."

She laughed hollowly. "You were the gnat that enraged the sleeping giant. We were seeking a better way, a more direct way, when you suddenly made everything worse. In the space of an instant, you made all their accusations about mages . . . true." Her staff flared again in response.

Anders held his hands up in placation. "Fine. But you know I helped give you the war you wanted. There is no way you would have been invited to a negotiating table with the templars, invited as an equal party, if I hadn't done what I did."

"If you're looking for thanks, you'll get none."

He shook his head in disdain. "I don't need any."

"And what about Cullen?" Hawke reminded them urgently. "He also stood against templar injustice in Kirkwall. And, the Order punished him for it. He doesn't deserve this. Please let him go."

Fiona sighed and with a wave of her hand, dismissed the cage around Cullen.

Cullen remained where he was, shoulders hunched, face empty, while Hawke rushed to his side. She knelt before him, but he only looked through her, his eyes unfocused. "Cullen?" she said softly, but there was no response, so she cupped his face, trying to get him to see her. "Cullen, it's me. It's Grace."

Finally, he turned slight toward her, but there was no recognition at first. She caressed his face lightly. "Cullen, please come back to me."

He blinked and then shuddered with a sudden, ragged gasp. His eyes focused again and he touched a trembling hand to her cheek, almost like he was testing if she was real. "Grace," he said, his voice cracking.

"I'm here," she whispered. "It's okay. You're safe."

He let out an explosive breath, and then took several more. "I know," Cullen said in a stronger voice, his face becoming less ashen.

Behind them, Fiona made an impatient sound. Hawke looked up to see Fiona practically tapping her foot and Anders watching her with Cullen, his expression still unreadable.

Hawke slipped her hand into Cullen's, pulling him unsteadily to his feet, and then turned to Fiona. "You've gone to some trouble to bring us here. Finally ready to talk?" Hawke asked in voice that made clear she was done playing games.

"I must admit to some curiosity," Fiona said grudgingly. "Come with me." She turned on her heel without another glance. The swordsmen from the dungeon moved up behind Hawke and Cullen, hands on the hilts of their swords, so they followed, hand in hand, with Anders trailing behind.

Fiona led them out of the hall and down a short corridor to a smaller room where several people gathered around a large table, with their backs to the door. Two of them turned as Fiona entered the room, a dark-haired mage with streaks of silver in his hair and beard, and a stately woman with brown hair braided in a long plait who stood with the ease and bearing of a warrior. Behind them, Hawke and Cullen's belongings were laid out upon the table, including Hawke's satchel and the opened invitation from Alistair.

The bearded mage stepped forward and smiled warmly. "You must be Hawke," he said, holding out his hand in greeting. "I'm Rhys, this is Evangeline." He nodded to the woman at his side.

Hawke shook his hand warily at this unexpectedly cordial greeting. "Hello."

"I apologize for the rough welcome. We have wanted to talk with you since Anders first told us of your plans. I'm sure you understand the need for caution. Especially since it seems you were followed to West Hill."

"You mean the men in black?" Hawke still wasn't sure how they could have followed her here after all these weeks, especially since they had traveled by sea.

"What?" Anders asked in alarm.

Hawke nodded at him. "Yes, our old friends attacked us in the tavern where your _new_ friends then attacked us as well. I still don't know if Varric is all right."

"If you mean the dwarf, he is alive. He escaped us," said the red-haired barmaid from where she stood near the door.

Hawke felt one small knot of worry inside her relax. "Lucky for you," Hawke replied, with a show of teeth.

The red head grimaced, but remained silent.

"The men in black have been chasing me for weeks, but I thought I had finally given them the slip," Anders said, tapping his lower lip. "I wonder how they finally found us again."

"Yes, we wonder as well," Fiona said in a dangerous tone.

Rhys glanced at Fiona, before he continued, "As you can see, our caution is warranted, however those men came to find you here. Nevertheless, we would like to hear more about this invitation of yours."

Rhys's placating tone was starting to work on Hawke, but she wasn't quite ready to play nice after what they had done to Cullen. She squeezed his hand, but he was still pale and his eyes remained shadowed.

"Well, you've read it," Hawke said, nodding at the letter.

"Yes," Fiona replied.

"And?"

"And what?" Fiona said with a toss of her head. "Do you expect us to be grateful that these heads of state finally deign to get involved? That life for their citizens has now been sufficiently disrupted that they are ready to do something?"

Hawke clenched her fists and had to resist the sudden urge to throttle Fiona. "No one can plan out the path of change, but this is a start. Isn't this what you wanted? For the leaders of the world to listen to the mage plight? No one wants this war. Not even you."

Fiona sniffed in disdain, perhaps realizing she had revealed too many of her cards during her exchange with Anders.

"So," Rhys interceded, shooting Fiona an admonishing look. "King Alistair will host this parlay in Denerim. At Fort Drakon. Can he guarantee our safety?"

"Yes," Hawke replied. "He pledges to offer neutral ground, with all the resources of the crown to ensure the security of the meeting."

"And he is trustworthy? This . . . Alistair?" Fiona asked, darting a look at Hawke out of the corner of her eye, like there was more riding on the question somehow.

"I believe so. From his reputation and everything I have seen of him firsthand, I think he can be trusted in this," Hawke said, looking at Cullen and Anders for confirmation, who both nodded.

"I don't see that the king has anything to gain by double crossing you anyway," Anders added. "To be fair, he has always been rather sympathetic to the cause. He tried to give a number of concessions to the Fereldan mages when he first took the throne. After the circle mages helped Solona and him defeat the Archdemon. Plus, Solona's a mage and we all know how he felt about her."

Hawke could not help but glance at Cullen, but if this mention of Solona bothered him, he gave no outward sign.

"Have you met him?" Fiona asked Anders, continuing her curious line of questioning.

"Once. Seems a good man. He stopped the templars from killing me the last time I escaped the Circle. So I may be a bit biased," Anders said with a grin.

"And, the templars have agreed to these talks?" Rhys asked.

"They have," Hawke responded. "They also had misgivings, but seem to want to find a way forward. The Lord Seeker himself has agreed to attend."

"This is a great risk," Rhys said, frowning. "Sticking to the shadows has been the only thing protecting us since what happened at Andoral's Reach. Do you really think this is the time for us to come forward?"

"I do. It doesn't mean capitulation. It means negotiation. Until you begin to talk, nothing can change," Hawke said.

"And nothing can be healed," Cullen added softly.

Rhys shared a long look with Evangeline, who had been silent this whole time. "I don't like it," Evangeline said at last. "But, there are some precautions we can take. We should discuss it with the others before deciding."

"Agreed," said Rhys, glancing at Fiona who nodded as well. "Hawke, I return your belongings. Please do us the favor of waiting here. Charis will see to your comforts." He looked meaningfully at the red-haired mage, who sighed in exasperation and rolled her eyes.

Rhys, Evangeline and Fiona started to file out of the room, and Anders followed until Rhys held up a hand. "Perhaps you should remain with your friends," Rhys said, his tone indicating that it was not a suggestion.

Anders nostrils flared at the dismissal, but he stayed behind, avoiding looking anyone in the eye. Charis fumbled her way through offering them various refreshments. Hawke politely declined, which seemed to relieve Charis and her obvious annoyance that she was again being treated like a tavern server even with her own people.

Everyone stood in awkward silence after that, as Hawke was unable to talk freely while Charis and her guardsmen remained. Charis looked equally uncomfortable, and after a few minutes mumbled some excuses and withdrew, taking the guards with her.

Hawke focused on the door as it shut, straining her ears to hear if they were locked in again. She did not hear a key turn, but she rushed over and tried the latch anyway, which moved freely. She released the breath she had been holding before turning on Anders.

"Where have you been?" she hissed as quietly as her indignation would allow.

"Away from you!" he hissed back and then glared at Cullen. "No thanks to you!"

"How were we supposed to know you would be with the mages we were searching out!" Cullen retorted, setting his jaw belligerently. "You should have known this is where she would be! Why are you here?"

"I was hoping to have convinced them without your help!" Anders shot back.

Hawke eyed them both suspiciously. "Wait, I thought you left because you thought this was all one big bad idea?"

Anders jammed his mouth closed and side-eyed Cullen again. "I was trying to lead the danger away from you. This time."

"But . . ." She didn't know what to say, turning to Cullen. "But you said . . ."

Cullen sighed and shrugged one shoulder. "It was what he wanted. He wanted to make sure you didn't try to follow him this time," he said grimly.

Dread quivered down Hawke's spine at each mention of _this time_ , which was their attempt to avoid mentioning _last time_ when her foolishness in chasing after Anders had left her open to capture by the man with the silver eyes. The feeling of dread spread through her until her heart clenched in genuine fear, which meant they had a point. Even if it was an annoying point.

"I can take care of myself," she heard herself say automatically, although the soft words rang false.

Cullen chuckled fondly, touching her face and brushing his thumb across her cheekbone. "Of course you can. But you can't stop us from trying to do what we can to protect you."

"Oh can't I?" she growled, narrowing her eyes at him playfully. He only smiled and dropped his hand. Behind Cullen, Anders's mobile face became very still and his eyes bounced between the two of them speculatively.

She turned to Anders. "So when we leave here, will you come with us?" she asked in as neutral a tone as she could muster. She wanted him to come. She missed him, whatever his misguided notions of chivalry.

"I might as well," Anders said, glaring again at Cullen. "Staying away hasn't helped much."

His answer was a relief, even if his constant anger toward Cullen was not. She sighed internally. _Some things will never change._ "Good," she said aloud. "Now we wait."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Chapter 22: Together Again, where our heroes come to an agreement with the mages and return to Denerim, while Cullen's situation becomes more complicated. :) Thanks for reading!


	22. Together Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Hawke's mission finally barrels toward a resolution, but as they reunite with their friends, Cullen receives an unwelcome surprise.

_West Hill  
Ferelden_

The wait for an answer from the mages was shorter than Hawke expected, for which she was grateful since the silence between Anders and Cullen was laced with a bitter resentment she did not quite understand.

She only briefly considered the notion that Anders was jealous, chiding herself for such vanity in thinking he would harbor feelings for her after all this time. Whatever Anders felt about her, her gut told her that this estrangement between Anders and Cullen was deeper than mere jealousy or even their usual animosity. Nevertheless, it still felt disrespectful to flout her new relationship in front of him. So she had to fight her near constant compulsion to touch Cullen, to assure herself he was okay, to soothe his discontents and find her own comfort after their harrowing experiences of the past few hours.

She had no more time to worry about it, though, as the door opened and Rhys and Evangeline returned, both looking grim. Hawke braced herself for bad news.

"We've discussed your proposal and have one of our own," Rhys said without preamble. "If you cannot meet the tenets of our proposal, there will be no talks."

Hawke frowned. Ultimatums were not a good way to enter into negotiations. "Let's hear your proposal then."

"There must be a hard limit on the number of participants, for both sides," Evangeline said, her tone uncompromising. "Four negotiators at the table each. No more."

Hawke nodded slowly. "Not unreasonable, although very small."

"Each party may of course bring a security detail. No more than twenty each. And no weapons in the room."

As Hawke absorbed this, Cullen said, "Does that not give unfair advantage to the mages?"

Evangeline leveled a stern look at him. "You know quite well, Ser Cullen, that templars can be just as dangerous without a sword in their hand. It is as level a playing field as we can design." She looked back at Hawke and added, "And that includes the King's entourage as well."

"You can't be serious!" Hawke exclaimed. "The King cannot be unguarded."

Evangeline spread her hands. "These are our terms. The King will manage security at Fort Drakon, in his own capital city, and must ensure that all parties follow these terms. If he can guarantee that the talks are truly secure, then he should have nothing to fear himself."

Frowning, Hawke looked at Cullen, who seemed to share her disapproval of this plan. "We will have to see what the King has to say," Hawke said.

"No," Evangeline said. "These points are non-negotiable. He either accepts our proposal or he does not."

Hawke opened her mouth to argue, but Rhys interrupted in a soft voice. "We must have some assurances, Champion. I was sure you would understand. We are exiles and fugitives. We are the enemy. Our only safety lies in controlling our surroundings. Our final requirement is the date. The talks must take place in two weeks, at the new moon."

"What? No, there is no way you can expect—" Hawke said, but Cullen placed a hand on her arm.

"We will deliver your terms," Cullen said.

Hawke looked at Cullen in outrage. "But—"

"It is for the King to decide," Cullen reminded her.

"As the last parties to be consulted," Anders chimed in at last, "the mages are within their rights to impose these limits. Choosing the date balances the fact that they chose neither the site nor the hosts. This places everyone on the same accelerated timescale."

Evangeline nodded approvingly at Anders, while Hawke glared at him, wondering not for the first time today which side he really was on. "Fine," she grumbled. "We will deliver your proposal. But be aware that very little happens in Ferelden on such short timescales, for any purpose."

Rhys smiled. "Oh, I think if anyone can make it happen, I have faith it would be the Champion of Kirkwall and the King of Ferelden."

Hawke snorted in amusement. "Clearly you don't know either of us very well, then."

ooXXoo

A short time later, Cullen found himself bringing up the rear as he, Hawke and Anders crossed the gangplank onto Isabela's ship. Varric, Fenris, Merrill and Isabela were in a huddle on deck, Varric talking in a low urgent voice while adjusting the cranks on Bianca. Isabela listened intently while sharpening one of her blades with a whetstone. But, they all looked up in surprise when a cry from the crew alerted them to Hawke's return.

"Andraste's tits, Hawke, it's good to see you!" Varric said in relief, jumping to his feet and immediately stowing his weapon. "I thought those mages were going to be the end of you."

"Not today, Varric!" Hawke said, laughing. "I'm glad you got away. I was both worried and relieved when you weren't captured with us."

"Oh, it takes more than such paltry human magic to bring a dwarf down," Varric said, grinning happily. "Although those bastards in black hurt Bianca."

"Oh no!" Hawke said.

Varric shrugged it off. "She'll survive. But it was a near thing."

"And our wayward son returns," rumbled Fenris to Anders.

"It's a long story," Anders mumbled, looking embarrassed as Merrill hugged him.

"Invariably," Fenris replied. "But we would still like to hear it." He looked at Hawke. "Varric says the mage underground attacked you? Any luck in finding their leaders?"

"Yes, for once I have good news!" Hawke said, and launched into a description of what had happened to them and the mages' counterproposal.

"Their firmest demand was setting the date for the peace talks themselves," Hawke said in conclusion. "By severely restricting the date, and making it so soon, they limit everyone's ability to do much planning. For better or worse."

"How soon is it?" Fenris asked.

"Two weeks."

Varric gave a low whistle. "They expect kings and templars to dance to their tune, eh?"

"What if Alistair doesn't agree to the date?" Merrill asked.

Hawke shrugged. "Then no talks. They were rather adamant that this point is not negotiable."

"I suspect that is also some of their paranoia talking," Anders added. "By ruling out any chance of negotiation before the talks, they limit the chance that they can be found before they want to be found. There are some who claim that even a sending stone can be traced."

"Then how will you contact them if Alistair agrees?" Merrill said.

"Varric will appreciate this," Hawke said, nudging the dwarf in the ribs with her elbow. "There's apparently a dead drop somewhere in Denerim that we're supposed to use with our answer."

"A dead drop is still a perfectly safe way to deliver information," Varric said defensively.

"Only for spies who cannot trust anyone," said Fenris with a snort.

"But Varric is not a spy," Merrill said without any hint of irony.

"Oh you sweet summer child," Isabela said, wrapping an arm around Merrill's shoulders.

Cullen hung back as the old friends crowded in around Hawke. Everyone talked over each other excitedly, teasing and bantering as an outlet for their obvious relief at having Hawke back. They also welcomed Anders while ribbing him about his disappearance and potential role in their capture, but he smiled, seeming pleased to be back. Seeing the way they took care of each other was enough to make even a lone wolf envious of their camaraderie, especially one who had finally had a taste of what togetherness felt like with Hawke.

Hawke was still telling her story, embellishing some of the more dramatic parts, when she looked around like she was searching for something. She turned until she saw Cullen, standing outside of the circle of friends with his arms crossed, and she held out her hand to him. He considered denying her, for perhaps a half a second, but then placed his hand into hers, feeling her fingers slip between his and lock together, like she would not let him get away.

She pulled Cullen closer, and then he was among them. Merrill jostled his shoulder companionably as she told the story of how they had even gone to the local chantry and asked the templars for help in finding Hawke and Cullen. Varric made a series of jokes about Cullen being captured instead of him due to his nice hair. Fenris asked Cullen's opinion of the mages' sincerity. Their words crashed over him, and at first Cullen was overwhelmed, but Hawke's hand was a lifeline that would not relinquish its hold, and soon he was buoyed by their concern.

Cullen smiled and stood tall, his shoulder touching Hawke's, connecting him to her, just as he was suddenly connected to the group. For the first time since his incarceration, he was part of something again, part of a whole. It was a feeling that would be hard to give up, when the time came and they learned the truth about him, but he would cherish the memory of that moment nonetheless.

"So just like that, both the mages and the templars are on board, huh?" Varric said later that night, rubbing his chin thoughtfully where he sat cross-legged on the deck of the ship. In deference to Cullen's claustrophobia, the group remained on deck, sprawled in a loose circle beneath the darkening sky. Varric took a drink from one of the wineskins that circulated in celebration. "I've got to admit, I thought it would be a bit harder."

"Oh Varric, now you've done it!" Merrill cried, her head pillowed in Varric's lap. "You can't say that out loud. Now something bad will happen." She was speaking a bit too loudly, as she often did when she drank.

Varric chuckled and brushed her hair back from her forehead. "Daisy, lots of bad things have already happened. I don't think it's possible to jinx ourselves more at this point."

"And we don't talk about bad luck on my ship, kitten," Isabela said from where she lounged on her side, her head propped up on one arm. "We'll be underway in the morning, and I don't want anything to interfere with our trip back to Denerim. I made a promise to Alistair, and I keep my promises."

Hawke guffawed loudly at this, causing Isabela to flap a hand at her and say, "Oh, shush you."

"Once we deliver the mages' demands to the King, do you think he will comply?" Anders asked, frowning. While everyone else appeared relaxed, Anders sat coiled with his arms crossed atop his bent knees, one of which jogged an anxious staccato against the deck.

"I don't see why not," Hawke replied from where she lay on her stomach in between Cullen and Anders, her chin propped up in her hands. "Their demands are exacting but not unreasonable, and could go a long way toward reassuring the mages. Probably the templars as well. Seems to me a King can clear his schedule for something like this if he's busy on that date. I just want to get the details settled quickly and advise the Lord Seeker. I think all parties will breathe a sigh of relief once that is done."

"Do we know that both sides are dealing with open cards?" Fenris asked, taking a long pull from a wineskin. He sat as close as he could to Isabela without touching and Cullen was again confused by how that couple worked. But then, everyone probably wondered the same thing about him and Hawke.

Cullen looked down at Hawke. Her legs were bent at the knees, with her feet up and dangling in the air as if she did not have a care in the world. He liked seeing her happy and relaxed, even if it was being helped along by the amount of wine she had drunk.

He could not quite say the same for Anders.

Anders was even more volatile than before, alternating between sullen and cheerful, the latter only with Hawke. With Cullen, Anders was openly antagonistic, which was not so different from before. Cullen had hoped that he had earned a small cessation of hostilities after their brief collaboration, but where Hawke was concerned, Anders was even worse. Cullen could not tell if Anders's time with the mages had heightened his reasons for hating Cullen, or if Anders was experiencing plain, old-fashioned jealousy.

Of course, it must be an adjustment to slip right back into the group after being gone. Or, so Cullen imagined, not having ever been part of such a group before. As a templar, Cullen had brotherhood with his fellow templars, but what Hawke had was family. A family that had now embraced him as well. It was humbling, but also disheartening that he now had so much more to lose.

"I hope so," Hawke said in answer to Fenris's question, drawing Cullen's wandering attention back to the conversation. "But frankly, what happens during the negotiations at this point isn't my problem." She grinned broadly. "Maybe that makes me a bad person, but there must be a point at which I can wash my hands of this mess. I've decided that once the peace talks begin, my job is done."

Isabela laughed. "Hawke, most people would have washed their hands long ago. Only you would take it to the bitter end."

Hawke laughed, too. "To the bitter end!" she cried, and raised a wineskin in toast.

"The bitter end!" came the amused response from around the circle, and everyone took a drink and passed a wineskin onto the next person.

Hawke passed hers to Cullen, a twinkle in her slightly inebriated eye. He smirked and held her gaze while raising the skin to her in salute. "To the bitter end," he murmured and drank.

A dribble of wine slipped down his lip onto his chin as he lowered the skin, and his tongue darted out to catch it. He raised his hand to wipe the rest away, but Hawke had reared up and kissed him. She tasted of wine and desire, taking his breath away for a moment as a burst of raw heat licked through his veins.

"Oh get a room!" Varric called out to drunken chortles all around.

"No!" Isabela cried. "I need my room tonight. Sorry, Hawke. You're on your own."

Hawke giggled and then cleared her throat. "I'm afraid I'll have to call it a night," she said superciliously, but with a grin as she boosted herself unsteadily to her feet. She held out a hand out to Cullen. "Coming?"

There was a smoldering promise in her eyes that he wasn't about to deny, so he took her hand and followed, ignoring both the raucous catcalls and the seething silence he heard behind him.

ooXXoo

Cullen leaned against the door to the ship's galley, feeling slightly sick to his stomach at the thought of being belowdeck, but sternly reminding himself that it would just be a moment to retrieve more water and return to Hawke. The trousers he had thrown on started to slip down again, so he hitched them up with one hand. He breathed deeply in and out through his nose while his eyes adjusted to the dim illumination provided by the full moon shining in through the porthole. When at last he had located the water barrel, he also saw that he was not alone.

Anders must have been getting his own water, but had stopped to look out at the moon when Cullen entered. They both stood still, not speaking for a beat.

"You know, when I said you should protect her, this isn't quite what I meant," Anders said lightly, but there was an edge to his words and swirling anger beneath them.

Cullen stood a little straighter at the challenge, ignoring the blasted trousers slipping again. "She has been perfectly safe. No thanks to you!" he snapped, deliberately misunderstanding Anders' implication. "Not only did you lead the men in black straight to her, you let your mage friends attack and abduct her. That was hardly our plan!"

Anders's glared him, the bright moon outside glinting from his eyes. " _My_ plan was for you to watch over her. Not sleep with her!" he said, biting off the words in an effort to keep calm.

"I fail to see how that is any of your business," Cullen replied stiffly, guilt weakening his defense. "I did my part."

"Hawke's well-being is my business," Anders said, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He looked out the porthole window. "And what you've done is exactly the opposite of keeping her safe, because now she has another leverage point with anyone who wants to harm her. Now they can get to her through you." He looked back at Cullen and his eyes now blazed with fury. "What were you thinking?" he hissed.

Cullen opened his mouth to answer, but every angry response stalled on his tongue. Because he had no good answer. It actually had not occurred to him that he could be a source of danger now for Hawke. It was almost unfathomable that someone would put herself in harm's way to protect him, but once he really thought about it, he knew that Hawke would, making her vulnerable again to the painful coercion from her past. Unfortunately, it also meant that Anders was right.

"I wasn't thinking," Cullen said at last, running a hand over his face.

"I've spent the past three years trying to ensure that she is never in that position again, where someone she loves can be used to hurt her. You know this! You were going to help me! Instead, you've put her at greater risk."

"I see. I thought . . . I thought you might still have feelings for her," Cullen said lamely.

"Of course I still have feelings for her! But you thought I was jealous?" Anders said incredulously. "Look, I want what is best for Hawke. If you're who she chooses, then you can have her. But, you need to think about if you are what is best for her. If anyone hurts her because of you, so help me . . ."

Power boiled up in Anders's eyes, glittering and dangerous, and the hair on Cullen's arm stood on end. Cullen clenched his jaw and resisted the instinct to draw in his own power since, for once, he did not want to escalate the situation.

Cullen swallowed and dropped his eyes in defeat. "You're right. It was . . . reckless of me," he managed through clenched teeth.

Anders took a deep breath and his eyes turned back to their normal shade of brown. "I trusted you of all people to do the right thing, Cullen. So you'd better ask yourself: Is this the right thing?" Anders stared him down for a moment and then stomped out the galley door, leaving Cullen to agonize over this new source of guilt.

Cullen made his way back to their sleeping nook in the stern to find that Hawke had fallen asleep while he was gone. He set down the waterskin, discarded his pants and slipped back under the blankets next to her. As he gathered her in his arms she murmured, "You're here."

"I'm here now, Grace," he whispered. She nestled her head against his arm and dozed off again. "I'm here for now."

ooXXoo

_Denerim  
Ferelden_

They arrived in Denerim without any delays, and made their way to the Royal Palace. There was a dicey moment when the guards at the gate challenged Hawke's identity and eyed Anders suspiciously, but eventually she produced paperwork to prove who she was, even if she grumblingly maintained that it should not have been necessary. They were then immediately shown in to see Alistair, who also frowned suspiciously on being introduced to Anders.

"So now I'm harboring fugitives?" Alistair said with a cocked eyebrow.

"You always were, Your Majesty," Hawke said quickly, "when you accepted my help—our help—with the talks. It was Anders who helped us bring the mages to the table."

Alistair frowned for a tense moment, but finally passed a hand over his eyes in resignation. "You have a point, Hawke. But I don't have jurisdiction to pardon him. Best I can do is ignore him."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Hawke said in relief.

"So, stay out of sight," Alistair said to Anders. "No public appearance. No grand gestures. And, for pity's sake, stay away from any public buildings, would you?"

Anders's lips twitched as he said, "I'll do my best, Your Majesty."

Alistair was otherwise pleased with their success, and so proceeded to sweep Hawke away into more private meetings. After lengthy deliberations and not a few complaints, the King's advisors agreed to the mages' terms, which meant the event would now take place in only 10 days. The court enchanter sent word about the date and the terms to the Lord Seeker, who immediately agreed, much to everyone's relief. So now preparations could proceed in earnest.

While Hawke was being bored to tears in these meetings, the rest of them were left with little to do except cool their heels around the palace. After a few days, Isabela left them for an appointment in Antiva, the purpose of which she would not disclose. The goodbyes were not dry eyed, but Isabela promised that they would see each other again soon. Cullen expected Fenris to leave with the pirate, but the elf remained at Hawke's side.

Cullen agonized over his own situation remaining at Hawke's side after his conversation with Anders. He knew he should break things off with her sooner than later, but the first time he considered doing it, he almost doubled over in pain. So he delayed making a decision, holding her a little longer, kissing her a little more urgently each night. He still expected his house of cards to collapse any day now, so was it really so selfish to enjoy what he could while it lasted? Anders's knowing looks of disapproval reminded him daily that it was.

Cullen sought the Chantry each day for solace, but instead of heading into the confessional and facing the reminders of his deceit, he went to the Red Lady's chapel. He prayed, opening himself again to Andraste's grace and hoping for a repeat of what had happened in West Hill, but it never came. Instead, his heart twisted in knots as he argued himself back and forth about leaving Hawke, and in the end, he departed each day just as troubled as when he had arrived. Without Hawke, he feared he would never feel that calmness of spirit again.

After four days of this, Cullen despaired of finding any answers in the Chantry. As he walked back slowly to the palace that day, he let himself look past the parlay to what his life could hold afterward. His mission would be accomplished. His conscience would finally be clear. It was even possible that Hawke might never find out about his deception. Perhaps they could be together without the Chantry looming over his shoulder. Perhaps they could both be free.

But Anders's words echoed in his mind, dampening all his dreams.

He took the long way through the halls of the palace, avoiding the high traffic areas and anyone he knew, before arriving back at his room. He had yet to sleep there, but it still felt presumptuous at this stage to officially share a room with Hawke. Hawke thought it was a silly consideration and had teased him about protecting her reputation, but as far as he was concerned, there was no point in making it easier for the gossips.

He opened his door, thinking he could train in the garden while he waited for Hawke, when his heart almost stopped at what he saw waiting for him. He tingled in panic and immediately scanned the room and the hallway for the source or other clues. He saw no one and nothing else out of the ordinary, so he shut the door behind him and locked it to keep out any prying eyes.

He approached the unused bed warily and sat down on the edge, adjacent to the primly folded note that sat in its center. The cream-colored paper was sealed with red wax and the same symbol with which he marked his notes to Leliana and Cassandra. His heart pounded in his chest while his mind rolled over scenarios for who would have access to his room and when. And whether there was any chance Hawke might have seen it.

Finally, he picked it up and broke the seal. The note was short and written in a looping script. He took a deep breath and read it, and then read it again, his heart sinking.

Apparently, Leliana and Cassandra had received his message from West Hill.

_Your newfound allegiance to Hawke changes nothing. You will continue to follow our arrangement to the letter, or your fledgling freedom will be revoked permanently. Pray there are no additional consequences._

_L & C_

He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and ground his teeth together as he sprang to his feet, unable to sit still. He paced back and forth across the room liked a caged animal as the impotent fury inside him sought an outlet. Still needing more, he turned toward the barren hearth and with a feral snarl, punched his fist into the wall, the note crumpled within his grip.

The sharp burst of pain cleared his mind to the cold, hard truth that he was beaten. The spark of hope he had gained from his small act of defiance in West Hill went out completely. If he could not escape them in this small way, would he ever? He gripped the note more tightly in his fist, redoubling the pain in his now bleeding knuckles, and paced again. But his righteous anger had deserted him, leaving behind only bitter resignation.

He sank down onto the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, and lowered his face into his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt a touch of wetness leak out of the corners. He sat there, numb, for so long that eventually someone came looking for him.

He heard someone try the latch on his locked door and then knock. "Cullen?" came the muffled call from Hawke.

He started upright as adrenaline surged through him, hot and pulsing. Still gripping the crumpled note in his hand, he frantically searched for a place to dispose of it, but the hearth had not been lit. "Cullen?" she called again. In a panic, he finally jammed it into his pocket. He would have to burn it later.

He took a couple of deep breaths and pressed his bloodied knuckles to his mouth before opening the door.

"There you are! I've been looking for you," she said, breezing past him into his room. "I finally have a break from Alistair and his advisors, thank the Maker! I swear they could drive a saint to sin. If I hear about one more guard formation or the color of the tea linens, I think I may blow up a chantry of my own."

She looked back at him where he still stood at the door and something made her stop in her tracks. She tilted her head. "Are you okay?"

"Better now that you're here."

Hawke smiled, and he drank in the sight of her like a man on his deathbed. She came closer and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Maybe I should have come with you to the Chantry?" she asked softly, guessing correctly at part of his heartache.

"No, you have more important things to do."

She made a rude noise. "They certainly don't feel important."

He returned her embrace, letting her warmth cheer him. "The details of the talks are also critical for success. Although I do question their wisdom in letting you manage the place settings."

She sniffed in pique. "I will have you know that Leandra Hawke made sure that her daughter can set a table. Just because I can't dance doesn't mean I am not a lady of quality."

He chuckled and nuzzled along her jaw line. "The finest quality."

She shivered and burrowed deeper into his embrace. "I still don't understand why you won't just stay in my room. You do know that it's freezing in here?"

"There's no need to keep the hearth lit if I don't sleep here."

"Then why stay here at all? There's plenty of room with me. I don't like the idea of you being alone." She looked up him, searching his face. "Especially today. I feel like there's something you're not telling me."

He stilled, trying not react, trying to find something natural to say in response as the response from Leliana and Cassandra preyed on his mind. He licked his lower lip nervously. "Don't worry on my account. My trip to the Chantry has just made me pensive. I've started to think about the future."

"The future?"

"What will we do once we succeed?"

She blinked. "I honestly haven't thought that far. I suppose . . . things could go back to normal."

"But which normal? Back to your itinerant lifestyle of Fereldan folk hero? Back to Kirkwall?" It was dangerous to tread so closely to the truth of his discontent, but it was also safest, as every liar knew. He watched her to see how she would respond, since he honestly did not know what she would want to do.

She sighed wistfully and her eyes got distant. "I'd like to go back to where I no longer have to keep looking over my shoulder."

He held her closer, tucking her head under his chin and wishing that he could finally make her feel safe again. She held him just as tightly and for a moment, she must have wished for the same. He took her face in his hands and kissed her softly, but as his lips moved on hers, they became more urgent. She leaned up into him, just as eager, and then it was like neither could get enough of the other. Lips melded and teeth clicked in their haste. They started to shuck off their clothing, moving more quickly as the need grew, and garments fell haphazardly across the room as they backed themselves blindly toward the bed.

Hawke fell back onto it, kicking off the last leg of her trousers as she shimmied backwards. Cullen stripped his off in one swift movement to pool on the floor before crawling over her to recapture her lips.

He was so consumed with the feel of her against his skin, the desperation he felt in her hands and lips, the drive that urged them both to delve deeper, that he did not fully recognize at the time that the crumpled note from his pocket had now tumbled out onto the floor at their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting this, but we have now entered Act 3 and our headlong rush toward the climax. I wanted to make sure the whole last act holds together, so I was holding back until I had most of it written. :rubs hands together in sadness and glee: So, SOOOON! Thanks for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> **Next up: Chapter 23: The Bitter End. Gulp. Sorry, in advance. :(**


	23. The Bitter End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the peace talks approach, Cullen must resume his reporting to the Chantry, but at increased risk.

_Five Days Before Peace Talks_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

Cullen woke the next morning smiling until he remembered the message from Leliana and Cassandra. He had not planned on sending any more communications, but it seemed those plans had been changed for him. He clenched his eyes closed, but opened them when Hawke shifted and grumbled next to him. Her tousled hair had fallen across her face, veiling it from his view, so he lightly traced a finger across her cheek and pushed it back. She was frowning in her sleep and her grumbling sounded like she was arguing with someone. It was different from the heartbreaking despondency and helplessness she evinced during her nightmares, so he assumed this was just a run-of-the-mill dream. Perhaps she was even arguing with him, a thought which made him smile again.

If he were going to deliver another note, he decided he might as well get it over with, so he slipped out of bed as quietly as he could and started to dress.

After their tryst the day before in his room, they had returned to Hawke's room again after dinner with their friends. Hawke was right that it was silly to have two rooms, but it created a thin veneer of distance that made their association feel less formal. He needed that distance to justify continuing his relationship with her, under the weak argument that it would be easier to leave her in the end. Even though nothing would make it easy at this point. Hawke was now the air in his breath, the song in his blood. She was everything.

He tiptoed out on bare feet and slipped his boots on in the hallway before heading to his room to write the new note. Hurrying, he scribbled something terse about how the peace talks were now set and shared the date. A spy of Leliana's skill would already know these details, so he suspected that it was only a formality to show that he still responded to her tug on his leash. A game within a game.

He trudged, head down, through the palace corridors, and in his haste, literally bumped into Varric on his way out.

"Whoa, Templar, why the rush?"

"I-I'm sorry," Cullen stammered, "I wanted to try to go and come back from the Chantry before Hawke rises."

"Oh, I get it. I'd seek religion before Hawke has her tea, too," Varric joked before strolling off, none the wiser.

Cullen rushed on, exiting the palace through a small sally port that let out closer to the path he took to the market. The din of the city was reduced at this hour, resulting in an unexpected hush that put Cullen on edge. Although he met few people along his way, he found himself starting to look back over his shoulder in paranoia, almost like he was back in Bremen and about to conduct his first betrayal.

At least it would be over soon, one way or another. Once the peace talks took place, there would be nothing left to report on. Of course, whether he would be allowed to simply walk away from the Chantry was another issue entirely.

Cassandra had mentioned that he could be reinstated and he had to think about whether he would truly want that or not. When they had made the original deal, he had not known how the world had changed. Seeing what the templars had become, and how their duty had been corrupted, he was not sure if he could go back. Categorically destroying all mages for an affliction they received randomly at birth was not what he had been trained to do, and his conscience rebelled against the notion. On the other hand, what else was he qualified to do? Mercenary for hire with unreliable anti-magic abilities? Guardsman with a penchant for not following orders?

As he walked through the city, his feet had progressively slowed until they were leaden in the steps up to the door of the Chantry. Today he would only deliver his message and leave without invoking a proper confession. There was no solace to be had for his problems, and certainly not through confession at this point when the Chantry itself was part of those problems.

He paused with his hand on the tarnished bronze handle of the door, still unable to shake the feeling that someone was watching him. He looked over his shoulder again, looking up and down the large courtyard before the building. The fountain stood forlornly empty, its water supply never fully restored since the Battle of Denerim during the Fifth Blight. The Chanter near the gate to the compound spoke the Lady's words to an unhearing mass of citizens passing by. The wind whistled in sympathy. But nothing was out of the ordinary. He squared his shoulders and yanked open the door.

He headed straight to the confessional, which surprisingly had a line at such an early hour. He waited with arms crossed, eyes on his feet, but eventually he could not help but look up. The towering figure of Andraste over the dais watched him with blank eyes, somehow expectant today as if wondering what his next steps would be.

 _I wish I knew myself_ , he said silently in answer.

When it was finally his turn, he slipped into the preternatural quiet of the box and waited. He did not wait long since the sister knew she had a long line today.

"The one who repents shall know true peace. Confess before the Maker and be absolved of your sin," said a brisk female voice.

Without any preamble, he said, " _The dark star rises in the east, but the Light shall endure_."

"I beg your pardon?" she said, clearly caught off guard.

He slipped his note along the edge of the screen and slowly it was drawn away.

"I see. Rest at the Maker's hand and be forgiven. If you can," she muttered, apparently jumping to judgmental conclusions about his purpose that were not far from the truth. Her robes rustled as she got up and immediately left the box to take care of the message, despite the waiting line of parishioners. He got up to leave as well, but another shadowy figured stealthed into the box on the other side of the screen.

The screen slid back promptly to reveal Leliana. She wore traditional chantry robes, which made her look like any other sister but for the coldness in her china blue eyes and the disapproval in the tight press of her lips. "So you decide to resume your commitment after all?" she asked.

"I . . . yes, you must know that I just delivered it."

"I'll retrieve it from the sister in due course. I am not here to discuss the details of the upcoming talks. I am here to remind you that your task is not yet complete." Her duplicitous flirting from the ball was gone, leaving the clinical taskmaster who was just here to bring him to heel again.

"You made that abundantly clear in the note you sent," he said. "I shudder to think how you snuck it into the palace. It puts me at risk." He struck a tone that was just short of accusatory, but even so, he knew he was dangerously close to insubordination.

Her expression did not change, but somehow became harder. "You forget yourself," she said in deadly quiet voice. "You may have accomplished much during your time with Hawke, but you are still just a few steps out of your cell. It seems you did not heed my earlier warning. Do not let a pretty dress or a pretty smile distract you from your purpose. Nothing is more important than brokering this peace."

_This is about Hawke._

The thought floored him. The fact that Leliana already knew so much of his personal dealings only confirmed that his reports had no purpose other than providing her with another means of control over his life. On top of that, she was acting like Cullen's personal dilemma in falling in love with his mark had thrown some specific wrench into her plans.

"You think I'm letting my relationship with Hawke interfere?" he demanded.

"You tell me."

"I have done everything you have asked. But my personal life is my own," he growled.

She laughed, a high tinkle of sound, like glass breaking. "That is where you are mistaken, Cullen. Your life is ours. You might still earn it back. But only once you complete your task without these . . . distractions."

His anger surged but then faltered as he realized there was nothing he could do. He was their creature, and no one could help him. Because he had betrayed anyone who cared about him. He had never felt as bitterly alone as he suddenly did in that moment. Everything seemed to conspire to take away the one bright spot in his life, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of it.

"I will complete the mission," he said, almost not recognizing his own voice in the lifeless sound.

"I should hope so," Leliana said. "The Light shall endure. Whatever the cost." She slammed the screen shut again and slipped away.

He left the confessional more slowly, moving listlessly toward the exit. He opened the door and squinted at the glare of sunshine after the gloomy interior. He passed the Chanter at the gate who continued to exhort the unlistening passersby.

" _Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting._  
_You have brought Sin to Heaven_  
_And doom upon all the world."_

He just kept walking and soon found himself in an unsavory part of town on the other side of the river from the market, on an alleyway he did not recognize. His thoughts barely attended his feet, though, as he played over and over his conversation with Leliana.

If he had needed any more inducement to break things off with Hawke, now he had it. The Templar Order had discouraged lasting attachments his whole life, so this was no different. Except that it was Hawke, which was as different as night was from day.

It was probably for the best. As he had once told Hawke, there was too much at stake and he should have known better. Those words had a different ring now, but remained true.

After several more wrong turns, two solicitations and one failed pickpocketing attempt, eventually he figured out where he was and started back toward the Palace District. Upon arriving back at the palace he headed to his own room as he was not quite ready to face Hawke yet.

He pushed open his door and found that he need not have bothered. Hawke sat on his bed facing the cold hearth, waiting. Normally she lived her life with her heart on her sleeve and every emotion played out in her body language, a quality he had grown to appreciate. But he could read nothing from her as she sat with her eyes downcast, her expression unusually blank.

He came around the bed toward her and was about to ask what was wrong when he saw what she held in her lap. The creased parchment was tilted so that he could just see the edge of the broken wax seal, the Seeker's eye just visible.

He went completely cold as everything he had feared came to pass. He searched in vain for something to say, to fill the accusatory silence, but he could not defend his actions. So the silence stretched, giving an answer of its own sort.

Finally, Hawke cleared her throat, but still did not look at him. "Varric . . ." she started, her voice cracking, thick with emotion, so she tried again. "I asked Varric to go with you to the Chantry this morning, so you wouldn't be alone." She paused. "H-he said he followed you to the Chantry but before he could catch up, you . . . you met with Sister Nightingale in the confessional. That you gave this to the sister." She held up the note, which shook along with her hand, and finally looked up at him, eyes wide and confused.

"How . . .?" Cullen's throat went dry and could not get out more than that.

"He said he pickpocketed the sister. Did you write this?" Her tone expected him to disavow it, to explain that it was not what it seemed. He had only signed it with his initial, as always, but it was clearly his handwriting. There was no escaping the truth.

The world came crashing down around him and he felt cornered. His breathing sped up and his heart pounded painfully in his chest. No matter how many times he had imagined being discovered, the reality was much worse.

"Hawke."

"Please tell me that you didn't write this," she pleaded. "That you weren't reporting to the Chantry on us. On me."

"I . . . I can't do that."

She went pale and shook her head, trying to deny it, but realization dawned on her face as the immensity of his crimes became clear to her. "Why? How? Are you . . ." She swallowed unsteadily. "Are you working for them? Still? Are you spying on us for the Chantry?" She looked down at the note in her hand, the broken seal. "Y-you use the chantry sisters themselves for your spying? All those trips to the Chantry. All that talk about _rediscovering your faith_. That was all a lie?"

"No! No, it's hard to explain. I did use the Chantry but that was not the only reason."

"And I fell for it." She jumped to her feet, suddenly filled with nervous energy. "Andraste's Grace, my ass! You were just looking for an excuse to pass on your little messages!"

"No, please don't think that. That part was true. Please. Just let me explain."

"See! This is why I only put my faith in people! People I can trust," she spat bitterly. "I can't believe anything you say now." Her voice now dripped with anguish. "You or your Andraste, Lady of Deception."

"Oh, Hawke, no," he moaned, seeing her hard won faith slip away again, an unexpected casualty of his lies.

Her eyes darted around as she put the pieces together, mentally reviewing their every interaction over the past months through the lens of his betrayal. "Is this why you came to us in the first place? Why you wanted me to get involved in this war, just like Cassandra did? To make us their unwitting dupes? Is that why you . . .?" She stopped and looked up at him, horror writ on her face. "Is that why you . . . and I . . .?" Her mouth hung open in shock, unable to utter her despicable accusation.

"No, it wasn't like that!" he quickly said. He couldn't really defend his other actions, but for her to think he manipulated her feelings for him was too much. "I care about you."

Her green eyes filled, and her voice rough with unshed tears. "I don't believe you." She covered her mouth with a trembling hand and turned away from him. Her shoulders shook for a moment but then she spun back around. "What have you been telling them?" she demanded, almost shouting.

He swallowed. "Nothing. Nothing critical. They just wanted updates. To ensure things were on track. They want the same thing we do. To stop the war."

"Oh no," she said low voice, frightening in its intensity. "What I want is to broker a peace where all parties enter in good faith. Good faith! This is why I won't work for the Chantry, because they cannot be trusted. Because they are always out for themselves, and damn the people who get damaged along the way."

"Grace, I'm—"

"No!" She cut him off with a sweep of her hand, and her lip curled up. "Don't call me that. Ever again."

"Grace, please," he begged, uncertain even what he was asking for at this point, only that it was killing him to see the pain he had caused.

"No!" she shouted, surging forward and shoving him back with two hands on his chest. "Don't you understand? You have lost the right to call me that! Everything between us is a lie!"

He touched his hands over his heart where he could still feel the throb of her blow, and all he could do was absorb her hate. He deserved it, and she deserved someone much better than him. Deep inside, a tiny voice pointed out that this was for the best. If he wanted to let her go, it was better that she not ever think of him again.

She started to pace as another outlet for her fury. "You know why I decided to take on this mission in the first place? What finally convinced me? It wasn't some grand notion of saving the world. It was because of you." She stopped and jabbed a finger at his chest. "You know that night by the fire? It wasn't your arguments or my guilt or that little smile of yours. It was the need for purpose I saw in your eyes, a need I'm not sure even you realize you had, among all your lies."

He could only listen, her revelations cutting him to the quick.

"I thought . . ." she stopped when her voice broke. "I thought we were doing something great. Together. Making the world a better place. Together. It was the only way I could bear having people rely upon me again. But that's all gone now." She sniffed pathetically and drew herself up. "Cullen, I want you to leave," she said, her voice quavering with emotion. "Go back to your Chantry masters. But, just leave. I never want to see you again."

He knew it was coming, so all he could do was nod and accept her punishment, which was perhaps the most brutal she could have inflicted on him. His fingers yearned to touch her one last time, instead he watched her proudly turn on her heel and march to the door.

She paused with her hand on the frame. "In this war, you're nothing to them," she said, her voice softened by despair. "The mages caged and tortured you. Then the templars caged and tortured you. So who is on your side, Cullen?" She glanced back at him and this time the tears welled up and fell. "I was on your side. Now who do you have? Maker watch over you." Her voice broke before she dashed out, slamming the door behind her.

It happened so quickly he was numb at first. Every accusation had been true, or at least, most of them. But that did not matter now, except that at his core, he was a liar and had brought this down upon himself. He was also now in breach of contract, which meant trouble from Leliana and Cassandra. All he could focus on for the moment was following Hawke's wishes, which was the final thing he could do for her. He could not think about the rest. Not yet. So he gathered his things, thought about what to leave behind that never really belonged to him, and a short time later, had slipped out of the palace again through the small sally port near the kitchens.

ooXXoo

_Waking Sea  
Ferelden_

Lowell stumbled a bit against the railing of the ship as it pitched and rolled on the choppy seas of the Waking Sea. He paused and closed his eyes on the nausea that rose up, reminding himself once again that the trip from Jainen to Denerim was relatively short. The tumultuous seas around the rocky Amaranthine coast were a challenge even for the most seasoned sailor, which Lowell was not. Once the urge passed, he pushed away from the railing and continued his way to Colin's cabin.

Lowell knocked. "My Lord?"

"Come in, Lowell."

Colin sat slumped in a chair looking bored while the blond serving girl twisted limply from a long chain that suspended her from the ceiling by her wrists. A growing pool of blood stained the cabin's floor boards beneath her naked form.

Lowell looked away so quickly, he could not immediately tell if she was dead or just unconscious.

He did not avert his eyes because he was squeamish. Maker knows Lowell had presided over more brutal acts by his own hand. Nor was it because of the bitter jealousy he sometimes felt. The scene before him was affirmation enough that his own place at his master's side was far more intimate than that held by any of Colin's throw-away women. Colin needed Lowell in ways that none of them could fulfill.

No, Lowell looked away out of self-preservation. His own recent mistakes had pushed him closer to Colin's wrath than ever before, and he wanted no reminders of the potential consequences of another failure. Although Lowell had been the one to discover the blond spy trying to send a message before they left Jainen, it could be argued that Lowell should have discovered her much sooner. His dislike for the woman had seemed reason enough for his distrust of her.

While Lowell waited for Colin to acknowledge him, the Seeker rubbed a rough cloth against the red stains on his fingers. "The girl still knew very little," Colin said with a sigh. "The only thing I could get out of her about her employer was that she was spying for the Chantry." He threw something over to Lowell who caught it. Through the crusted blood, he could see it was a ring with a plain golden band crowned with a round bezel of moonstone that spun in his hands. On one side, the bezel bore the sword of mercy, like a thousand similar templar rings, but on the other side it bore the ancient symbol of the Inquisition, the Seeker's eye crossed with the sword of mercy.

"At least Justinia's all-seeing eye will be blinded for a time until she tries to send another mole into our ranks. I don't know how much the spy might have revealed of our plans," Colin continued, "but she claims to know nothing of our intentions to thwart the peace talks. I think I may even believe her." Colin tapped his chin thoughtfully. "She did reveal a few interesting things, though."

Colin paused without explaining further, so Lowell prompted, "Interesting things, My Lord?"

"Ah, yes," Colin said in a deceptively mild tone. "She tells me that Anders is with the Champion in Denerim."

"Yes, My Lord," Lowell said, eyes alight with excitement, although he wished he had been able to tell Colin the news first. "I was just coming to tell you. News from West Hill, both Hawke and Anders have been sighted there before they took ship to Denerim. We are searching the West Hill environs for the mage underground as we speak."

"How delightful." Colin glanced at the unhearing blond woman, and with a tilt of his head, said, "You were telling me the truth after all, my dear. Then it seems it must also be true that the Champion is no longer romantically involved with the terrorist, but with that traitorous templar. Removing her as our leverage point with Anders." Colin's eyes slid to Lowell, and although his tone never changed, the accusation was clear.

"I-it seems so, My Lord. I-I-I could not be sure, but I suspected. The evidence was only circumstantial when they were in Jainen," Lowell quickly explained.

"So Anders is with Hawke again. But, Hawke may no longer have the same . . . inducement to protect him now," Colin mused without acknowledging Lowell's excuses. "Do we know if the terrorist will attend the peace talks with her?"

"We do not, but it's plausible. Hawke will surely be there, and she never goes anywhere without that pack of hers."

Colin grimaced sourly. "Indeed. Always someone watching her back, and vice versa."

"Whether the terrorist attends the talks or not, we still have an opportunity, My Lord. The Agent can intercept the mage during the talks, or amid the resultant chaos. Either way, we have him."

"You think so?"

"Your plans will work, My Lord," Lowell said, enunciating very carefully without being forceful. "Justice for Anders, _and_ the destruction of the underground. And now, I know just the way to ensure that Hawke will be powerless to stop it."

Colin turned his chair all the way around and clasped his hands in his lap, giving Lowell his full attention at last. "Tell me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I can say is _Sorry!_ , gentle readers. sniffsniff. This chapter was by far the hardest for me to write so far. Nevertheless, this is hardly the end for our heroes! Next up: **Chapter 24: Andraste's Grace** , where Hawke and Cullen's stories will diverge in the aftermath of their split.


	24. Andraste's Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke re-examines her faith in the wake of Cullen's disclosure, while Cullen meets an old friend upon starting his new path.

_Five Days Before Peace Talks_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

Cullen made his way out of Denerim as quickly as he could, dodging unnoticed amongst the townsfolk in the lightweight leather jerkin he wore instead of his usual armor. He passed a patrol of templars encased in their gleaming uniforms and for once did not feel the usual ache to be among them. It was long past time for him to stop hiding behind the Sword of Mercy. Now he had only himself to rely on, and only himself to blame as he forged a new path in this world.

He still had no idea where that path might lead, except that it was away from Hawke. The ache returned at the thought of her. He imagined all the regret she must feel for the time they had spent together. At least those moments would live on in him as cherished memories, because he knew that, of all his actions and lies over the past months, those moments had been the truest. He clung to them as a shield against the unknown.

He headed out the Denerim main gate and onto the West Road that led back toward the Bannorn. He had not been walking long when the buildings and the dense crush of humanity thinned out, leaving only the occasional farm visible a distance from the road. Otherwise the roads were virtually empty, but for a few merchants with creaky wagons and the odd troop of soldiers. With little else to occupy him, he could start to enjoy the views of the lush countryside with the majesty of Dragon's Peak in the background. Even from here he could still see the towering fortress of Fort Drakon looming over Denerim and guarding its citizens. Guarding Hawke, not that she needed guarding.

That had been one of the ironies of his arguments with Anders, that no matter what they did, Hawke remained perfectly capable of protecting herself. He and Anders and the others were her only liabilities. Without them, none of the horrors of her past would have occurred. Cullen could not begrudge Hawke her closest friends, but at least with himself gone, there was one less weakness for her.

He passed another squad of templar heading down the road in the direction of Denerim, which was one of several already today. He knew that security was a serious concern for these peace talks, but that seemed like a large influx to the city's already significant complement of templars. He was still puzzling this when he heard the faint sound of fighting up ahead.

He advanced warily and after a turn in the road, he could see a small battle ensue some way from the road, beyond a copse of trees that mostly obscured them from full view by passersby. Armored templars closed in on a lone figure in silvery blue armor wielding a staff, and magic crackled through the air along with the smell of ozone. There was something familiar about the mage, so against his better judgment, Cullen crept closer, hand gripping his sword.

He skirted around the edge of the treeline, staying in the shadows, and the shouting grew louder, solidifying into words.

"Hold the line! Hold the line! We've got her cornered!"

"You won't escape this time, warden!"

"Move in!"

"Yes, please, come closer, if you dare," cried the mage with a trill of fierce laughter.

It wasn't until that moment, when he heard that familiar, inappropriate laugh in the middle of battle, that it clicked for him.

_Solona!_

Even after all these years, Solona Amell was the only mage he knew who fought with such fierce joy and deserved arrogance in her abilities. Watching her was like taking a step back in time, and he again marveled at the uncanny precision and power she wielded in her small hands.

Solona spun around and, with a deft turn of her staff, sent off several arcs of crackling lightning that hit the two closest templars simultaneously, dropping each to their knees as smoke trickled from the joints of their breastplates. The lightning then split off and hit four additional men and women who had enough time to scream before crumpling to the ground.

" _Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,_ " chanted one of the remaining templars and then there was a shimmer in the air around him, expanding out in a circle until it hit Solona with the full force a holy smite.

She grunted and flew backwards with the force of it, landing flat on her back with a whoosh of air from her lungs. The four remaining templars advanced with a cry as she lay there dazed. Cullen finally snapped out of his surprise and without thinking, ran into the fray, drawing his sword and shield with a cry of rage.

The templars did not expect an attack from the rear, so Cullen soon had cut a path through their ranks. He pummeled one senseless with an oblique strike of his shield below the woman's ear, and tripped another, knocking him out with a swift kick to the head.

The two final templars had just reached Solona, and one held his sword high for a killing downward blow with two hands, but Solona reacted just in time, and kicked his knee out from under him before rolling to the side and scrambling back to her feet. She had just straightened when she had to dodge to the side to avoid a thrust from a second templar who followed with a swift counterstrike of his sword.

Solona had lost her staff so she had only a quick pulse of ice magic from her bare hands to knock him back. But the templar's lyrium-fueled immunity allowed him to shrug off the coating of ice and advance again.

But then, Cullen had reached them, bashing the man from the side with his shield. The templar staggered backward in surprise, but before he could make a sound, Solona had stabbed him through the throat with her dagger. She gave it a brutal but efficient twist before scrambling over the other templar she had knocked down, and finishing him in a similar fashion. She stepped back with a grunt of satisfaction and scanning the field for more enemies. Seeing none yet on their feet, she spared a glance for Cullen. And then a second.

She looked him over curiously, a small frown between her brows, while he did the same to her. Like the last time he had seen her at Kinloch Hold, her auburn hair was swept up in a high knot on top of her head and she wore Grey Warden blue. But she now had grey threaded in with the auburn hair at her temples and her green eyes—green Amell eyes—were older and had seen more. Her eyes narrowed and took on a cat-like intensity that was almost the mirror image of Hawke, making him recognize only belatedly the many similarities between the two women. Hawke would have been pleased.

"It's been a long time, Cullen."

"So it has, Solona."

"Come here often?" she asked with a grin.

He sighed and shook his head. "Seriously?"

She chuckled. "Well, this is a lovely coincidence, but we should probably get some distance from our handiwork before we catch up." She looked pointedly at the corpses and moaning wounded scattered at their feet. "Care to join me?" she said, jerking her head in the direction of the dense forest behind them.

"Lead the way."

ooXXoo

Hawke wandered the darkening corridors of the palace, unable to face sleeping in her bed alone, but she was also loathe to face her friends and their questions. They had pressed her to confront Cullen after Varric had returned from the Chantry with the damning evidence of Cullen's subterfuge. Merrill was ready to give Cullen the benefit of the doubt, so urged Hawke to just ask him about it and find out the truth. Anders had urged her to turn Cullen in to the authorities, but since it was unlikely that Cullen had actually broken any laws, Hawke suspected that Anders was just being vindictive. Varric and Fenris had both recommended that she find out the truth however she could, while reminding her to prepare for the worst.

But she could not have prepared herself for this, which was worse than anything she could have imagined. Her heart still railed against the truth, while her head cursed herself for a fool. After leaving Cullen's room she had avoided the others, who waited for answers she could not yet give. It was still too raw, and Cullen's reasons still too incomprehensible. She could also recognize that she had not given Cullen the opportunity to explain himself properly, because she had not wanted to understand.

She did not want to understand how he could betray her after everything between them. Or, how she could not have suspected anything. Or worse, why she still could not convince herself that his feelings had been part of the charade.

The rest of her day had been a blur. She might have gone outside. Maybe to wander the marketplace? Or was it only to the palace gardens? She had spoken to Alistair, but her words had been mechanical and instantly forgotten. Once night had fallen, she craved the oblivion of sleep, but the traces of him still lingered, driving her from her bed into the deserted halls of the lesser used wings of the Royal Palace.

She didn't know how long she had walked, replaying their confrontation or just blocking out all thought, but eventually she found herself at Cullen's door. She put her hand on the handle, knowing he would be gone, yet still hoping he might have stayed just a little longer. She hesitated before slowly pushing it open to a darkened room. "Cullen?" she called, receiving no answer. She stepped inside and turned up one of the oil lamps near the door before shutting it behind her.

The dim light revealed a pile of things he had left behind on the bed. She drew near and saw a deck of cards Fenris had lent to Cullen. A small bag of gold that should go back to Varric. The breastplate and vambraces from Alistair. She traced a hand over the engraved sword of mercy on one of the vambraces.

_How will he keep himself safe without his armor?_

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw what was sitting on one of the pillows.

She reached out and lifted up the small bunch of white flowers. Tied together with a rough length of twine, the blooms' simple white petals opened enough to reveal their telltale reddened interior. Andraste's Grace. Also on the pillow was a slip of heavy white paper of the same type as Cullen's duplicitous note to the Chantry. She unfolded the note with a trembling hand and read, in that now familiar, angled script:

_Don't lose faith, Grace.  
Love always, Cullen_

She kept staring at the words until they blurred, and when she blinked, the tears finally spilled down her cheeks. She took a shuddering breath and then the sobs welled up, choking her. They tore from her throat, painful and ragged, wracking her frame in an unending flood. She clutched the note and the flowers to her chest as despair locked tightly around her heart and after a minute sank down to her knees on the carpet, overwhelmed with loss and regret of what might have been. She hid her face against the side of the bed, muffling the raw sounds as they intensified, while the tears continued to roll down her face, wetting the embroidered coverlet.

Eventually the knot in her stomach unclenched enough for the convulsive sobs to subside, leaving behind an emptiness inside her that at least held the pain at bay for a moment. She sniffed disconsolately and rested her forehead against the bed while gazing down at Cullen's gift. She could almost believe that his search to restore his faith had been genuine, especially since it had had such a profound influence on her own, despite what she had told him.

She clenched her eyes shut and murmured,

" _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_  
_I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._  
_I shall endure._  
_What you have created, no one can tear asunder._ "

She opened her eyes, feeling momentarily lighter.

"Why?" she whispered to the empty room. She sighed, head still bowed, and then something caught her eye. She tilted her head and peered under the bed to get a better look at the crumpled wad of paper that rested against the wooden bed leg. Heavy white paper just like that in her hand.

She fished it out and unrolled it, smoothing the wrinkles. It bore the same red wax seal as Cullen's note to the Chantry, but was written in a different hand, a looping script with more flourishes than Cullen's penmanship.

_Your newfound allegiance to Hawke changes nothing. You will continue to follow our arrangement to the letter, or your fledgling freedom will be revoked permanently. Pray there are no additional consequences._

_L & C_

Hawke guessed that "L" must be Leliana, which suggested that "C" in this case was Cassandra Pentaghast. The most interesting part was that it sounded like they were coercing Cullen into spying, and he tried to get out of it. He tried to get out of it for her. She smiled tremulously.

Was this the only reason they let him out of prison in the first place? She conjured an image of Cullen when he had first joined them. Surly, beaten, wary. Lonely. If he had not agreed to this deal, would he be in that prison still? She tried to imagine that version of Cullen wooing his way into her bed in order to manipulate her and actually felt a genuine laugh well up from inside her. No, his dislike had been pretty convincing back then. Was his recent change of heart part of the lie then? She looked down at the note. _Don't lose faith, Grace._ He had had no more to gain at this point, since she had already agreed months ago to get involved in the war. Sleeping with her had not been necessary. In fact, he had been downright resistant to the notion, she realized, thinking back to what happened at the pond.

Hawke heaved a deep sigh and wilted back against the side of the bed as she sorted her feelings. All she had was conjecture and half-truths, but a coherent picture was starting to emerge. Leliana's attendance at Alistair's ball was no coincidence, and her attentions to Cullen no mere flirtation. Leliana was manipulating them all, which again begged the question of _why_. Why not just ask? But as soon as Hawke formed the question, she knew the answer. They had asked, through Varric, and the answer had been a categorical _no_.

She pulled her knees up in front of her and held the Andraste's Grace up before her, which had been harvested just as they had started to open. The flower grew wild across Ferelden and its sturdy white petals and stubby twisted stem could be found almost anywhere. It was so ubiquitous that some farmers considered it a weed. The Chantry sisters in Lothering always said that, like the hope we gain from Andraste's grace, the flower would appear wherever it was needed. Hawke wondered where Cullen had found it here in the city, and felt another smile ease across her face and start to thaw her heart.

_Don't lose faith, Grace._

"I'll try, Cullen."

ooXXoo

_Foothills along the West Road  
Ferelden_

Cullen followed Solona in silence for an hour or two until she decided they had successfully evaded any kind of pursuit. He followed as best he could, thankful at last that he was not clanking in his armor while she moved soundlessly down paths only she could see. He felt the brush of her magic, and assumed she was obscuring the sign of their passing in some way.

"This may be far enough for now," she said. They had stopped at a small rise that gave her a good view of the valley below and any possible danger. The sun was almost down and the towers of Denerim were only a shadow in the far distance.

Solona stripped off her leather gloves and slapping them against her thigh, which each gave off a puff of dust.

"You've been on the road for some time?" Cullen asked.

She grimaced. "You could say that. I think it has been a few years now."

"Years?" he asked in surprise, but then that fit with the stories he had heard of the Hero of Ferelden's disappearance. Much like the stories about Hawke, actually.

Her face fell, revealing her weariness for an instant, before she schooled her expression back into a confident smile. "If something is worth doing, it's worth doing right. I've been chasing down . . . information on the Wardens and their secrets. It's just taking longer than I had originally anticipated. I happened to be near Ferelden, so thought I would swing through and check in on some of the, erm, news I've been hearing." She paused and gazed pensively toward Denerim, before giving herself a shake.

"Anyway, enough about me, Cullen, what are you doing out here?" she asked incredulously. "Are you no longer a templar? You're helping hapless travelers now? And, wearing civilian clothes? You look like you've been spat out of the Void itself."

Cullen had forgotten how blunt Solona could be, and all at once, it was like he was back at Kinloch Hold, blushing and stammering before her boldness. "I . . . Well, no, and yes. I-it's a long story," he said, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.

She gave him another searching look, really looking at him, and nodded. "I see. Maker, Cullen, it looks like you've been through something since the last time I saw you. And, who could ever have imagined that anything could be worse than that cage of Uldred's."

"Who indeed?" he said mildly, his gaze wistfully drifting almost of its own accord back toward Denerim. Night was falling and Hawke would be sleeping alone.

"Well," she said, tucking her gloves into her belt, "I think we have some time, and it seems you just might need a friend right now. Let's start a quick fire and get settled first."

Like Hawke, Solona had clearly been traveling for too long. It took her no time at all to gather enough dry wood for a small fire, which she started with a snap of her fingers. By the time true darkness had fallen, they were already finishing a small rabbit she had roasted. Throughout dinner, he had begun haltingly to fill her in on his life since he had last seen her at the Circle Tower.

She was a rapt listener as he told her about the aftermath of the fall of the Circle, his rehabilitation in Greenfell, and his reassignment to Kirkwall. She had heard some of what happened in Kirkwall, since who had not? Like the rest of the world, she thought it was only the mages to blame, along with Hawke and a few corrupt, but court martialed, templars. She had not known that he had been one of them.

"Oh, Cullen, I'm so sorry. I had no idea the Chantry would have made someone like you their scapegoat. Of all people, you're one of the good ones. Knowing you were a templar gave me hope that the system could be fixed." She wrapped her arms around her knees. "How did you get out? You were in Kirkwall's prison?"

He nodded. "The Gallows. I was there for about three years until . . ." He stopped and glanced at her sidelong. He had never told anyone the whole story. The true story. Suddenly, he needed to do so, desperately, just once. He wet his lower lip. "Until the Chantry made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

It all came spilling out, all of it, the offer for his freedom, his manipulation of Varric into taking him to find Hawke, his attempts to convince Hawke to get involved in the war, his doubts about whether he should abandon his mission. She listened patiently to all of it, interrupting from time to time to ask questions. He told her about their meeting with Alistair, about which she had a number of questions, particularly about the Queen and the baby. Cullen ended with the details of their meetings with the mages and templars, and the upcoming peace talks.

He had found himself glossing over his involvement with Hawke at the end. The pain was still too new to face more judgments that he had used Hawke for his own ends. But Solona probably could read between the lines anyway. She had always had a knack for knowing what he wanted to say better than he did.

She was thoughtful when he finished, and did not say anything right away. "This explains a few other things for me," she said, her eyes distant. "I received word only recently that Leliana had been trying to contact me months ago. For what reason I don't know, except that it was important. A word she does not use lightly. It's one of the reasons I'm here. You said you saw her in Denerim?"

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak respectfully about Solona's friend, after all the trouble she had caused him.

"I wonder if this is why she wanted my help." She glanced up at Cullen and smiled. "I'm sorry. Perhaps if she had found me, you wouldn't be in the predicament you are in."

 _And I would probably still be rotting in my cell,_ he reflected.

He let out the breath he had been holding. "It's best not to dwell on _what ifs_ ," he said, trying not to sound sour. "Hawke has done an exceptional job as things now stand. But, Leliana would no doubt still welcome your assistance to ensure that the peace talks take place without anyone killing each other."

"You think the talks will be that bad?"

"It is difficult to say. My sense is that both sides are extremely wary, as they should be. But I also think that no one is telling the whole truth. For example, I've passed an unexpected number of templars marching to the city today. Far more than a simple honor guard of twenty would warrant."

Solona nodded. "I see what you mean. I was having my own suspicions that something is afoot when I was waylaid. Most templars—most people—know better than to engage with a Grey Warden. Mage or no, I'm exempt from their jurisdiction, but these men didn't seem to understand that subtlety. They're out for blood."

"The new Lord Seeker has taken the Order directly in hand and rules it with far harsher intentions than I've previously seen. Having met him in person, I fear for the Order. But he did agree to the talks, which is a step in the right direction."

Solona gave Cullen a searching look. "If even some of your concerns are founded, then why are you leaving Denerim?" she asked.

"I just told you why," he said, frowning in confusion. "Hawke told me to leave."

Solona's eyebrows raised in disbelief at this. "So?"

His mouth worked but could not form an answer.

"Cullen," she said, her expression full of sweet forbearance, "you're so completely in love with this girl that you apparently can no longer think straight. She needs you. Leliana needs you. Thedas needs you. Who gives a damn about a few white lies in the face of the real danger we all face right now if these talks don't work out?"

"I . . ." Too many thoughts fought to get out at the same time. _Hawke needs me? She doesn't need me. She doesn't want me. They were more than a few white lies. But if she is in danger, I can't leave now. Can I?_

"You definitely have some issues to work out, but the man I knew wouldn't run away at the first roadblock. Not the man who withstood Uldred when no one else could." Her voice took on a hard edge, and he actually flinched.

He wanted to refute her implications, argue her point, but knew she was just baiting him. "I'm not running away."

"That's what I thought," she said, a smug smile lifting the corners of her mouth. "So then, how do we get to Denerim without running into more templars?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barreling onwards toward the climax, I thought it would be fun to introduce someone who could tell Cullen he's being an arse. I'm currently writing what I think is the final chapter, Chapter 31, lacking the epilogue, so all these threads are coming together soon. Thanks for sticking with me! **Next up: Chapter 25: Welcome Back,** where Hawke starts an investigation into the note she found.


	25. Welcome Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen races back to Denerim while Hawke falls out with her friends in the aftermath of Cullen's betrayals.

_Four Days Before Peace Talks_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

Hawke had awoken in the middle of the night disoriented and freezing after falling asleep on the floor of Cullen's room. Too tired to move to her own room, she had crawled under the covers of his unused bed and slept again until dawn, when a startled elven servant discovered her in the assumed empty room.

For a while after the servant retreated, Hawke just stared at the ceiling, her eyes sandy and stinging from all the crying, and mentally rearranged all the pieces she had learned the night before in an attempt to decide how she felt. She was still bitter that Cullen had lied to her about his reasons for joining up. But she could now accept that those reasons were more complicated than she had known. The fact that he may have had no choice in the matter just made her angry that the Chantry would use him in that way.

Did she want him to come back? Desperately. Sleeping without him had been difficult, even after such a short time together. She could not imagine what it would be like back in her own bed, surrounded by the smell of him. Or worse, if the traces of him were gone already.

Was she ready to forgive him? That she wasn't quite sure about, but first things first. She needed to find him.

She gathered his things and took them to her room, placing the flowers in a small jar with water near the window. Once she had washed up, she sent for Varric.

"Hmmm," Varric said again, still holding the discarded note Hawke had found.

"You keep saying that!" Hawke cried. "So do you think it's true? Do you think Cullen was spying on us because the Chantry made him? You found him in Kirkwall when they released him."

"See, that's the thing," Varric said at last. "I keep playing it over in my mind. From what I can recall, he was a mess. Listless, purposeless. The man could barely string a sentence together! If I hadn't been there, who knows what would have happened to him!"

"But you were there, Varric. At exactly the right time and place to bring Cullen along. To bring him to me."

Varric clamped his mouth shut in annoyance. "All right. All right. So, say I did get played. That would mean that Cassandra called me in for a talk just to create that coincidental meeting, and Cassandra Pentaghast is hardly a master of subterfuge."

"But Leliana is."

"Fine. So it's all been a big set up since day one, instigated by the Chantry, who only let him out of jail so he could betray us. Now what? He's still been lying. Are you saying all is forgiven?"

"No," she said, sounding less than certain even to her own ears. "But, it's different if he was being coerced. Don't you see?"

"Hawke, I'll be the first person to admit that fiction and truth have an uneasy relationship. But it's different in a guy like Cullen."

"Why?"

"Because . . . for someone like Cullen, he's too nice. He knows it's wrong, which makes it worse when he does it."

"What?" she said, utterly confused. "Are you saying that Cullen lying is worse than someone disreputable lying?"

"Yes!"

She glared at him, so Varric sighed and added, "Hawke, he hurt you. I won't stand for that."

Hawke swallowed around the lump in her throat. "Thank you, Varric. And, you're right, he did. But I need to work through this with him, and find out what really happened. I need to find him. Will you help me?"

Varric sighed again. "Like I could ever say _no_ ," he grumbled. "But you'll have to understand if I deliver him a little less handsome than he was before."

She smiled. "So long as it's only a little."

ooXXoo

_The West Road to Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

Cullen and Solona set out for Denerim the next morning, but this time stuck to the ridge that overlooked the West Road to avoid any new templar squads headed to Denerim. Even from a distance, they could see the periodic formations of glittering armored knights headed to the city, supporting the impression they had gathered from the day before. The Lord Seeker was practically moving an army into the area. Once the ridge they followed headed too far north toward the North Road, they moved downhill closer to the road, but it remained slow going through the forest. By the time they could see the looming heights of Denerim light up in the distance, it was time for them to make camp themselves.

Cullen was so anxious about getting back to town that he almost burned the hawk Solona had downed for dinner. It was taking so much longer through the forest than his outbound trip had taken along the road.

"Cullen, the peace talks aren't for another four days. So one more isn't going to make a difference. Relax. Your Hawke is fine," Solona chided as she cut up the singed bird and gave him half. "I can't say as much for this one." She gave him a cheeky grin at her lame pun, which almost made him smile. "So tell me more about her, my cousin Marian Hawke. How did you meet her?"

He considered dodging the question as a frivolous use of their time, but then, Solona was right and they were not going to make any more progress in the dark. Thinking back, he smiled in spite of himself to remember his first encounter with Hawke. "I almost arrested her for obstructing my investigation into a blood mage plot."

"How romantic," Solona said.

He chuckled. "Hardly. Hawke was . . . she was a force of nature in Kirkwall. Wherever there was trouble, Hawke inevitably was involved, for better or for worse. She almost single-handedly expelled the Qunari from their brief occupation of Kirkwall, becoming our Champion." He pictured again the cost of that victory branded into her tortured skin. "She gave everything she had to Kirkwall, even her freedom in the end, as she remains hunted to this day for her role in overthrowing Meredith's insanity."

"Sounds like someone else I know," Solona said from the other side of the fire, giving him a pointed look.

He opened his mouth to deny it, but then said only, "Perhaps. But Hawke is a hero in the true sense of the word."

"And, I'm related to someone famous!" Solona said suddenly.

He laughed again. "She says the same thing about you. I think you'd like her, if you met. You're very alike in some ways."

"I will take that as a compliment of the highest caliber," Solona said, inclining her head. "Cullen, I . . . I don't want this to sound patronizing, but I'm glad for you. For how horrible you think things are, it sounds like you're exactly where you need to be right now. I hope you work things out with Hawke. It seems like she makes you very happy."

He looked away to the dots of light on the watchtowers of Denerim. He pictured Hawke asleep in the bed they had shared, and the way she quieted at his touch when the nightmares took her. The way she murmured his name, like a talisman against the fear, as she settled back down. "She makes me whole," was all he said, and then looked back at Solona. "So, dare I ask about you? Are you with anyone?"

Solona's face immediately closed off. "Oh, no, not right now. There are too many . . . other things."

"Are you planning to see Alistair?" he asked, softening his tone.

"I haven't decided."

He nodded in understanding.

She sighed and gazed into the depths of the fire. "I'm glad he seems happy. And now he's a father! I never thought . . . I'm glad. It's . . . it's what I wanted for him. Why I . . ." She straightened. "Anyway, I'm pleased that the succession is secured and the Theirin reign will go on. He's done well."

She sounded like she was trying to convince herself of these things, but Cullen didn't want to pry more. It was already awkward enough discussing other loves with his first crush, let alone one that was clearly painful for her. Cullen could still remember seeing her together with Alistair when she liberated the tower. It was one of his few clear memories from the aftermath of his captivity. At the time, it had been difficult to see her finally give her heart to someone else, but her blinding happiness had made it easier. He had always wondered what happened when he heard that Alistair ended up marrying one of the Cousland girls from Highever.

Changing the subject, he asked, "Have you ever gone back to the Circle Tower?"

"Only once, but it wasn't the same. Almost everyone I knew is gone. You?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I needed to leave that place in my past. But, maybe someday."

"Maker's breath, Cullen," she said, shaking her head in chagrin, "who would ever have thought we'd be here like this, together again, after all these years. Outside the Circle, free of constraints. It was a fancy I used to imagine when I was young."

He smiled at her wistfulness. "Being free of the Circle?"

"Being free of the Circle, with you." She bit her lip. "I'm sorry. That's probably a dodgy thing to say to you, after everything, but it was once something I wanted. Funny, how fate can hand you these things sometimes out of order."

He could acknowledge that her admission was something he would have given much to hear back at Kinloch Hold. But, now, his first thought was of Hawke, and how their own relationship seemed at times out of order as well. "Fate is a curious thing," he agreed. "But I think that things do tend to work out as they should."

"I suppose they do," Solona said softly, her brow furrowing. "Why don't we turn in? Tomorrow is a big day for both of us."

As she turned away and settled into her bedroll, Cullen rolled onto his back and stared up at the stars. The small pinpricks of light had once seemed distant and cold, but now he traced their patterns and saw how connected they were. The same stars twinkled down tonight on Hawke.

ooXXoo

_Three Days Before Peace Talks_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

Hawke picked at her breakfast the next morning and focused on her tea, the warmth spreading through her hand but not as far as the cold rime around her heart. She winced at the overly bright sunlight streaming into the sunroom and tried to tune out her friends' chatter around her once she had listened carefully to Varric's update on his search for Cullen.

Varric had couched his lack of success in words that indirectly told Hawke to prepare herself for disappointment. No one had seen him in the palace, which suggested he might have left altogether, but then no one had seen him leave either. Varric expanded his search out into the city, asking in the marketplace, the Chantry, finally the main gates out to the West and North Roads. No one could remember someone of Cullen's description, which unfortunately could describe so many men, especially without the armor he had left behind.

"It's a good bet that he's long gone, Hawke. If you told him to leave, he probably did just that," Varric said, sounding imminently logical, but also glancing at her sidelong to gauge her reaction.

She kept her gaze focused on the spoon stirring her tea. "But you won't stop searching?" she asked softly.

"No, no, of course not," he said, "although . . ." Hawke tuned out Varric's next words. The crush of doubt and remorse was more than she could handle this morning. She waited to hear a pause in the string of sounds leaving his mouth and just grunted in response.

"It's better that Cullen's gone, anyway," Merrill suddenly chimed in and Hawke's ears unfortunately perked up. "I don't think I could have pretended to be nice." Merrill's bow-like mouth turned down into an uncharacteristic frown.

"I doubt any of us could," said Fenris, still surly from the early hour.

"Wait. Do you think he only pretended to be nice to me?" Merrill asked. "I thought he actually started to like me, but maybe that was also a lie?"

"Cullen had nothing to gain from being nice to you, Merrill," Hawke said, wishing that Merrill would just stop. That they all would just stop.

"Nothing to gain except Hawke's good graces," Fenris said. He glowered under his dark brows and shot a reproachful glance at Hawke.

"And to dull all our sensibilities," Varric mused. "I knew there was something off when we played Diamondback. Honest men should not be so good at bluffing."

Fenris grunted and his frown deepened. "Or winning. Perhaps he lied about his skill as well."

Anders breezed into the sunroom at that moment, smiling idly like all was right with the world. "He was clearly playing everyone from the first moment," Anders said. "Who knows how much truth there was in any of his stories from the past three years. We're lucky to be clear of him."

Hawke's face flushed as the others all glanced uneasily at her after Anders's statements. She kept her eyes down and tried again to focus on stirring her tea, watching the soothing vortex spinning down into the depths of the cup.

"I knew he couldn't be trusted," Anders continued. Hawke stirred more furiously and the vortex deepened into a darkening maw. "I told you all so—"

"Enough!" Hawke roared, rising to her feet while her chair grated loudly across the cold slate floor. Everyone jumped and the room fell silent. Outside, a passing cloud dimmed the blinding sunlight momentarily and provided a moment's respite.

After a pregnant pause, Anders said, "Look, Hawke, we're as sorry as you are that this has happened. No one likes to feel that they've been taken in. But it's also a bit much for you to expect us to forgive him. And, frankly, we can't believe that you already have!"

Hawke went cold at his accusation, but everyone else shifted uncomfortably, except Merrill whose jaw dropped open. "Anders!" Merrill cried in admonishment.

"You're all thinking it," he replied. "Just no one else will say it." He looked back at Hawke. "He lied to you. To all of us. And that's not how we work, and certainly not how you've always worked. So find him if you must. But don't expect us to welcome him back as easily."

Hawke was rooted to the spot and felt like all the blood had drained from her face. She looked around at her friends, and none of them were brave enough to look her in the eye. She nodded slowly and wet her lower lip. "I see. Well. Okay then."

"Hawke . . ." Merrill started, raising a hand in supplication, but Hawke stopped her.

"No. It's all right. I'll just . . ." She swallowed. "I'll just go then." Hawke pushed away from the table and strode out the door.

Behind her, an angry buzz immediately started up, but the only words she could make out were from Anders saying, "Well, it's true!"

Hawke avoided her friends after that and instead threw herself into the preparations for the talks. She was the only one of them with an actual role to play during the event, despite her repeated reminders to Alistair that she was no diplomat. But she had agreed to help and frankly needed the distraction.

Alistair had decided to put her in charge of some of the mages' more exacting requirements, like no weapons in the negotiations. The King's advisors had been most resistant to this requirement, demanding at least some protection for the King during the proceedings. Hawke had found herself in the unlikely position of defending the mages' condition, pointing out that if they did their job right, everyone would be safe. The advisors were only mollified once they decided that the elite palace guard would oversee the proceedings under Hawke's direction. Knowing that both the mages and templars were equipped with their own innate abilities, independent of weapons, Hawke found it fitting that the only ones disadvantaged by the rule were herself and the palace guard anyway. So she had her work cut out for her.

As an added precaution, Alistair had put the city on lock down as well, declaring that the only persons allowed into Denerim that week were those who had legitimate business. Traffic into the city slowed to a standstill as overwhelmed city guards attempted to question everyone coming in, from farmers headed to market to nobles headed home to the palace district.

The Lord Seeker informed them of his intention to arrive the day before the talks, but there had been no word from the mages. With Rhys's concerns over safety, Hawke fully expected the mage representatives to appear in a puff of smoke at exactly the appointed time in Fort Drakon. She even suggested that they warn the city guard to expect some variation of this to make sure that the important parties for the talks were allowed in.

Once all the arrangements were in place, however, Hawke could only wait, and think, and worry. Where had Cullen gone? And how would she ever make this right with her friends?

ooXXoo

_The West Road to Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

Cullen and Solona started out early to make their way slowly back along the West Road, which became increasingly congested as they approached Denerim. They worked their way into the crowd, and the crush of people made it easier for them to blend in, even under the watchful eye of the next templar patrol. As they walked up to the gate, however, they discovered the source of the bottleneck, since the city guards were questioning everyone who came in.

Cullen gave Solona a questioning glance. "Hard to say what they're looking for," she replied. "But we can't hide from anyone for long in this city, so there's little point."

"If you say so," he said skeptically.

The shadows had lengthened by the time their turn came to jostle through the gate. Two extremely bored city guardsmen questioned the farmer ahead of them, who launched into a lengthy explanation of harvest timing and marketplace cycles that finally had the guardsman waving him through in relief.

When their turn arrived, Cullen and Solona walked up to the guards, but were pushed out of the way by the gate guards who ordered them back to make way for another column of templars coming through the gate. "Make way! Make way!" shouted one of the guards as he ushered the templars through.

Finally once they had passed, Cullen and Solona approached the guard, who looked at them suspiciously, his beady eyes narrowing. "And what brings you to Denerim, serrah?" he asked Cullen, eyeing his sword and Solona's well-used staff, which she held in her hand with no attempt to hide it.

"Grey Warden business, my good man, which means none of yours," Solona interrupted.

The man could not hide his shock, whether at being so rudely set down or because she was a warden, Cullen could not tell. "Grey Warden, eh? And does that make me an Antivan crow?" He chuckled and elbowed his fellow guardsman, a man with a droopy moustache who had not really been paying attention. The first man pointed at her. "Get this. Grey Warden."

The guard with the mustache frowned in concern. "Now, no suspicious folk allowed in the city this week due to an important meeting. On orders of the King."

"And the stream of templars into the city is not cause for suspicion?" Cullen asked.

The first guard rolled his beady eyes at Cullen. "They ain't suspicious. They're templars. They've been coming in all week, on account of the Lord Seeker himself arriving soon for the meeting. They keep the peace. Just like why we're out here."

"Well, then, you may tell your King that the Hero of Ferelden has also arrived for that meeting," Solona said, her eyes flashing with anger. Both men started at mention of such a figure of legend, and side eyed each other in an attempt to tell whether the other was taking this claim seriously. "Or rather, I can tell Alistair myself that I was treated as a suspicious person when I see him and Elissa at the palace." She tossed her head high, threw back her shoulders, and suddenly her whole posture spoke of unfathomable power.

Both men instantly cowered before her. "Blessed Andraste forgive me, My Lady, you are welcome to Denerim," the beady-eyed man stammered before bowing his head.

"Maker's blessing on you, My Lady," said the guard with the mustache, his eyes bright in admiration. "Please, we didn't mean anything. Had to do our duty."

"I will commend you to your King for keeping the city safe," she said in a ringing tone that almost made Cullen laugh out loud. "Now we will be on our way."

She swept past them into the city, and Cullen could only follow, his shoulders shaking from suppressed mirth.

Once they were out of earshot, she turned to him and asked ruefully, "What?"

He laughed hard. "I'm sorry. I haven't met the Hero of Ferelden before, apparently. Does she do an encore?"

She smiled sheepishly. "If you're going to be famous, you might as well put your fame to good use when needed." She punched him in the shoulder. "Stop laughing!"

"Oh I would never risk laughing at the mighty Hero of Ferelden," he said, still failing to stop. So she punched him again, this time with weight behind it. "Ow."

"You deserved that," she said, sniffing in pique. "The downside is that now it's unlikely we'll remain incognito." She sighed, her good humor slipping away. "I guess I'll be seeing Alistair after all."

"If I'm going to see Hawke, then that was inevitable anyway."

"You're probably right. So, do we go find them, or wait for them to find us?" she asked.

His palms suddenly became clammy at the thought of having to face Hawke again. He had gone through a number of scenarios of explaining why he had flouted her wishes and come back, but he knew they all sounded better in his head, from a safe distance. Now that he was here, a short half-hour walk from seeing her again, he was scared. "It can't hurt to have a good meal in our stomachs first," he suggested.

She smiled her agreement. "All right then, where to? Last time I was here, half the city was still burned down."

He took them to an inn that faced onto the marketplace. It was one of the first that Hawke had tried on their first trip to Denerim for the ball, so he figured it would be good enough, but not so upscale that he might worry they would be recognized. They slipped into an empty table in the crowded middle of the taproom, and waited for one of the harried servers to come their way. Eventually a dour-faced man took their order and trudged off to the bar.

Solona looked around. "I don't think this inn was here last time I was in Denerim."

"Has it been so long?"

"Long enough," she said, with a tight smile. "There were enough reasons to stay away. Then Alistair got married, and there were . . . more."

"I'm sorry. That sounds difficult."

She laughed, but it was a disconsolate sound. "So, I know a bit of something about being told to leave. Sometimes . . . well, sometimes I wish someone had told me to go back, too."

"Solona, you don't have to come with me," he offered. It was starting sound like seeing Alistair again perhaps was not such a good idea.

"No, I'm a big girl. And life goes on. You're proof of that!"

"We shall see," he said with a wry grimace. "If Hawke runs me through on sight, we will know we were wrong."

Cullen looked over his shoulder and could have sworn that several people suddenly looked away. He started to pay attention, and realized it was not his imagination. There was now a buzz in the tables around them, and multiple patrons were watching them. "News travels fast," he said quietly to Solona, and out of habit, loosened his sword in its scabbard.

She sighed. "Seems so."

A minute or two later, a stately woman in expensive leathers but with a lean look to her face walked over to the table. "Solona Amell," the woman said.

Solona inclined her head. "Bann Alfstanna. A pleasure."

The affirmation of Solona's identity was quickly picked up by the adjacent tables and spread like wildfire through the inn. The whispers were now an inescapable din.

"Word is, Hero of Ferelden has been missing. Good to see the rumors were misinformed. The world is a sad place when its heroes are gone."

"Ah, but new heroes always rise, My Lady. No one is irreplaceable."

Alfstanna chuckled deeply. "Wise words. Nevertheless, I for one am glad to see you back in the world." She raised her glass and, in a voice that carried across the taproom, said, "To the Hero of Ferelden. Welcome back." Behind her a slow roar grew as the toast was repeated back by countless voices around the room.

Solona, usually unflappable, looked genuinely touched. She inclined her head in thanks at the Bann, and then around the room, catching as many eyes as she could. "Thank you," she said, her eyes shining overbrightly.

Alfstanna nodded, and then walked back to her table. No one else seemed brave enough to approach their table, for which Cullen was grateful. Solona was already reliving her emotional past without more attention being thrown her way. He reached out his hand across the table top to her, and she grabbed it, squeezing it once.

Their server finally returned, but now gazed at Solona in awe. "Compliments of the house, My Lady," he mumbled as he set their food down on the table.

"Please give the proprietor my thanks," she said, and then dug into her food, head down, so she could avoid further embarrassment.

No one bothered them for some time as they ate, but once they had finished, some patrons would stop by the table on their way out, and say thank you or touch their fingers to their forehead in a sign of respect.

Cullen had never seen anything like it, even with Hawke who was every bit as famous as Solona. The difference, he mused, must be that Solona had swept in from obscurity to save the people of Denerim—of all Ferelden—from sure destruction, and then had vanished like a martyr. There was something mythic to her story in a way that the Tale of the Champion lacked, especially when most of the residents of Kirkwall knew Hawke personally.

When they finally got ready to leave, Solona tried to pay the innkeeper, who demurred, repeating again that it was compliments of the house. So she merely thanked them.

It was late when they stepped out into the street, and Cullen now questioned their logic in delaying their trip up to the palace. Few lanterns lit the street and the long shadows obscured their path. Cullen had taken it often enough in the past few months, but it was still very different in the dark.

He tried to guide them on the most direct route, realizing belatedly that it took them through an unsavory part of town near the river. He pointed this out to Solona with an apology.

She shrugged and laughed it off. "That is at least something I remember about Denerim."

Cullen had to threaten a small-time thief who had started following them, but luckily the thief seemed to recognize that Cullen and Solona were too much for him to handle. They were drawing closer, turning the corner onto a deserted plaza at the edge of the palace district, when Solona stopped suddenly.

"Wha—" Cullen tried to ask, but she pressed a finger to her lips, silencing him.

She looked around the plaza, searching for something, and slowly drew her staff from where it had been strapped to her back. The night was dark and moonless since they were scant days before the new moon. Solona paused and then with a quick thrust of her staff, slammed it down onto the pavement and sent a surging burst of light up above their heads, illuminating the entire open area.

On the opposite side, formerly hidden in shadow were a swarm of armed men in dark hoods and clothing. Hawke's dogged pursuers. Discovered, they started to sprint toward her, but another spin of her staff, and the swirling sphere of light above their heads shot down a shower of arcing lightning over the faceless attackers. Some dodged, but not all were so lucky. At least two shuddered to the ground with a distant, horrible sizzling sound on the air.

As with their previous attacks, these men in black were prepared and disciplined. They made not a sound as they came, and seemed to expect the outcome of Solona's magic. She immediately sent off a series of blazing arcs of fire from her staff as it twirled in the air while the men continued on, dodging in and out of the barrage.

Cullen stood back, giving her room to maneuver, until the first few came into melee range. Then, he engaged, catching the first blow against his shield and shoving the man back. He found it freeing to move without his breastplate and had to compensate for the difference in weight, but then it was like he was back on the ship with Hawke, moving through with swift, continuous motion that was almost by the book from his training forms. Cullen dodged a strike, and let his momentum carry him into the man's guard, catching the unprotected joint of his attacker's vambrace, and then as quickly, whipping his sword low to hamstring the man as he attempted to twist away from the blow in pain.

Then, Cullen had moved onto the next, blocking multiple blows with his shield, and then spinning to catch the edge of his shield against an assailant's throat, at a minimum crushing his windpipe. But Cullen did not stop, and did not tire as he would normally. The battle became a blur of precise movement, and he started to time his movements with a murmur of the Chant under his breath.

Unfortunately, he finally took one off step, and felt the crunch of a sword slide through his leather jerkin in a blow that easily would have glanced off his abandoned breastplate. It was so unexpected that Cullen paused to watch the sword pierce his abdomen, and the subsequent gush of blood felt like it was happening to someone else. He came back to himself when it grated painfully on a bone, and with a last ditch effort, he knocked the attacker away with his shield. The man fell away, taking his sword with him, but Cullen still buckled to his knees as the pain overwhelmed him and his vision darkened at the edges. He held a hand to his side, trying to hold in the blood and whatever else, but he could feel his strength slipping away with the pound of his heartbeat in his temples. He looked up at the hooded man who stood over him and waited for the final blow that would not come. The man looked away, saying something Cullen could not hear, and then there was another hooded man before him. A man with familiar silver eyes who looked him over clinically.

Then, everything went dark, and Cullen felt himself falling. The last thing he could make out was a cry of "Cullen, no!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still apart, but at least our heroes are all back in the same town. :) Next up: **Chapter 26: Ten** , where we'll learn Cullen's fate.


	26. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The players start to assemble in Denerim for the peace talks, but Hawke is distracted by her desperate search for a missing Cullen. Meanwhile, Cullen learns more than he wanted to know about Hawke's previous incarceration three years previous.

_Two Days Before Peace Talks_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

Two days before the peace talks there was still no sign of the mages. Alistair told Hawke to proceed with the expectation that the talks would take place, but the silence was worrisome.

More worrisome for Hawke was that she could still find no sign of Cullen. Her one short conversation with Varric that morning had been painfully awkward, and he had merely reiterated his conclusion that Cullen was no longer in Denerim. Now that she knew how Varric and the others felt, she could not ask them for any more help in her search. So she pressed on alone.

But, then she had received a curious lead, as some townsfolk in a mid-town inn had reported seeing someone of Cullen's description with the Hero of Ferelden. The appearance of the local hero was whispered all over town, like another tall tale. They said that Solona Amell had apparently shown up at the inn the night before, broken bread with the locals, and then disappeared again.

Such tales about the mysterious hero were inevitable, given how elusive she had been since she left Amaranthine. Hawke knew they were usually nonsense, since she heard the same things about herself, and they were always far-fetched, featuring appearances in countries she had never even visited. But in this case, the inn was one that Hawke knew well, having visited it only weeks earlier with Cullen. That, together with his personal connection to Solona Amell, gave the tale greater credence. It was also her only lead, so she would not let it go.

Hawke interviewed every person she could find who claimed to have been at the inn last night, but most only remembered the Warden. The few who had noticed the Warden's companion spoke of the couple canoodling like lovers. Unable to make heads or tales of the baffling stories, Hawke finally met someone who mentioned that one of the Banns had been there and actually had spoken with the Warden. So Hawke soon found herself headed to the palace district.

She knocked on the door of what was supposed to be the official residence of the Bann of Waking Sea, but she was not at home. Once Hawke probed, she learned that the Bann was an unusual woman who eschewed high society and more often was found in the Market District. Hawke was too anxious to begin another wild goose chase in the Market district without knowing the Bann by sight, so Hawke found herself coming back to the main gates and questioning the guards this time not about Cullen, but about something they were far more likely to remember: the Hero of Ferelden.

As she approached the gate, there remained a crowd of people trying to get in. Alistair's security measures had throttled down the rate of entry to a snail's pace. The guards at the gate were reticent to talk to her at first, until someone recognized her as the Champion of Kirkwall, and then they could not stop talking.

"Champion o' Kirkwall? Well, I'll be. You know Tug, he says he met the Hero of Ferelden the other day. The actual Maker-blessed Hero of Ferelden! Two heroes in Denerim has got to be good luck."

"Or bad," chimed in another guard. "Last time we had so many heroes here, the Archdemon landed on the top of Fort Drakon."

"Naw, it's good!" replied the first.

"So, this Tug," Hawke said, trying to get back to the point. "You say he claimed to have seen the Warden?"

"Seen her! He talked to her. Claims he was the one who let her into the city."

"Is he by any chance on duty today? I'd like to talk with him," Hawke said.

"Um, not sure. Not here at main gate. I'm on 'til midnight."

"Tug could be at the river gate," said the second guard.

"Oh yeah, river gate! Yeah, I would check there," said the first with an enthusiastic nod.

Eventually Hawke arrived at the river gate, where the city guard oversaw the river docks in the shadier part of town. She asked around and eventually was pointed to a man with beady eyes who looked at her suspiciously as she approached.

"Tug? Is that your name?" she asked.

"Depends on who's asking."

"I'm Hawke. I hear you met the Hero of Ferelden the other day. I wanted to ask you a few questions about it."

"Right, I did!" Tug said, needing no further inducement to discuss his brush with fame. "She was just like the picture books, standing tall with her fiery hair, and her staff alive with magic. She came in through the main gate, and I knew she was here on important business, so I made sure she got let in straightaway."

"Do you happen to know what that business was?"

"Important. Didn't you hear me?"

"I see," Hawke said, trying a different tack. "And, do you happen to recall if there was a man with her? Tall. Blond hair. Broad shoulders. Looks cross most of the time."

"You know, come to think of it, there was a brute with her. Curly hair. Frowny eyebrows. Worried he was going to start trouble when at first I didn't . . . I mean when at first I had to explain the rules about who can come in."

"You're sure? They were together?"

"Sure as the day is long. They definitely entered the city together."

"Do you know where they went?" she ask desperately.

"Naw." He shook his head. "Though I hear they was in the Market, some tavern, where she gave everyone her blessing for the coming year before disappearing again. Like Blessed Andraste herself."

Hawke had to work really hard not to roll her eyes at that one, but instead thanked him for his time with a few coins. Hawke turned to go, but then Tug stopped her with a hand her arm.

"Hold on. I just remembered somethin.' The Hero said she was here for the peace talks and was goin' to meet with Alistair and Elissa, you know, the King and Queen?"

"Yes, I'm familiar. So you think she was headed to the palace?"

"Maybe."

"Very well. Thank you again for your help, Tug."

Hawke started for the palace. Either Alistair already knew that Solona was here and had seen her, or he was clueless and Solona never made it to the palace. In either case, Hawke needed to talk to him.

It took her a few hours to track him down and arrange to speak to him privately, but when she did, she was glad she had taken that precaution.

"Solona? Is coming here? Are you certain?" Alistair said when she asked him. He immediately paled and started to pace. "Do you know why?"

Hawke just watched him for a few moments, before saying, "I take it this means that you haven't seen her yet?"

"Of course not! Are you serious? You think my marriage would still be intact if I had?" Alistair was literally sweating.

"Alistair, I think something may have happened. I've had several witnesses corroborate, more or less, that she came to town yesterday. But no one has seen her since. This is most troubling because apparently she made a rather public appearance in an inn in the market district, so the whole city is buzzing about her, and yet not one person has reported seeing her since then."

"You think she is in trouble?" He instantly sobered, his eyes becoming clear and calculating.

"I think she is," Hawke said with a sigh, "and what's worse is that I think Cullen was with her, and is now missing as well."

"Cullen? Didn't he . . . ? Didn't you . . .? What was it that Varric told me? That—"

"None of that matters now!" Hawke said, cutting him off before he started breaking her wounds open again. "I have to find him. And Solona."

"Very well. What do you need from me?"

"I know that the palace guard is committed to monitoring the peace talks day after tomorrow, but if there's anyone who could be spared to help me search the city, I would be grateful."

"I will see what I can do, but that will limit the number of guards overseeing the talks."

"I think we will be fine. At this rate, we may not have talks at all if the mages don't show up," she said sourly.

"Oh, they'll be here, Hawke. Have faith. No one wants peace more than they do, I'll wager. They're not the ones sitting in their Towers getting fat off the spoils of their holy war. The mages are scrabbling in the dirt, tooth and nail, to protect a better life for their children. They will come."

ooXXoo

When Cullen came to, he had no idea where he was, but at least this time, he could see. Before him were dark stone walls with spots of green growing at the joints where the slightly damp stones met. He was laying on his side again and flexed his hands to learn that they were free this time. The last thing he remembered was pain. Pain and the man with silver eyes, which begged the question of why he was not dead. He sat up slowly and probed his side with his fingers, feeling only a mild ache where the sword had pierced his gut. The skin was whole if uneven, with a slight indentation that pulled a bit, like it would if there were a newly formed scar. Someone had healed him and with considerable effort, given that the grave wound still left a mark. His next question was: for what purpose?

There were no signs of Solona. Dark cast iron bars closed one side of the empty, otherwise stone-walled cell. He closed his eyes and heard the murmur of men talking, a rattle of chains, the crackle of cheap torches, and the distant rush of water. There were no female voices that he could discern, nor any real clues as to his location, except that perhaps he was close to the river that ran the entire length of the city.

He crossed his arms atop his knees, chagrined that he could be in such similar dire straits now two times in the space of a fortnight. He actually chuckled at what Hawke would think of his predicament, but then he almost immediately regretted that thought, because the man who held him captive seemed to be the very same man with silver eyes that haunted her dreams.

Who was this man? And what did he want with Cullen? He could only hope, against all hope, that Anders's dire warnings had not finally come true, and that they would not use him against Hawke. That would be rather ironic, given that he no longer meant anything to her. Cullen sensed he was in for a very bad day.

The lack of natural light in the cell meant Cullen had no way of telling the passage of time, only that he waited for hours alone until finally footsteps echoed across the hard stones of the prison. Brisk steps that also clicked from iron shod on his boots. Cullen scrambled to his feet and moments later a man in a dark, billowing cloak strode through the entrance to the prison. Silver eyes glinted at Cullen from within the dark cloak as the man approached down the narrow corridor to the cell.

Hawke had spoken of the silver-eyed man's curious dispassion, of the punctuality of his interrogations, and of pain. Cullen tried to prepare himself for what was to come, but instinct drowned out reason as his mind flinched away from the splinters of memory now stirring. The fear rose hard and fast until the edges of his vision started to darken while his heart beat pounded loudly and erratically in his ears. He tried to dip into his survival techniques from Kinloch Hold, but they flitted just beyond recollection.

The room continued to darken, so he closed his eyes, willing himself to think of Hawke, holding onto the image. Her smile. The dimple that he loved. His burning need to protect her. His breathing slowed and his vision cleared. He looked within himself and realized that he would do whatever it took to try to keep her safe. Even if it meant his life, or worse, his mind.

The hooded man stopped in front of the bars and tilted his head, bird-like, to assess Cullen. Still not speaking, the man pushed back his hood to reveal features wholly unremarkable except for those odd silver eyes. Short, mousy brown hair framed a youthful visage that watched him curiously, with none of the signs of cruelty or depravity Cullen would have expected. The man steepled his hands before his lips in some kind of ritualized gesture, holding his fingertips together in such a way that Cullen could see each of the man's fingers and the strange tattoos lining each one. The tattoos were words, written in a fine, spidery script, and once Cullen looked closely, his stomach turned at what he recognized there.

On one hand, written along each finger like the line of a manuscript, it said:

_Magic exists to serve man,  
and never to rule over him._

And on the other hand:

_All things are known to our Maker  
And He shall judge their lies._

Cullen had never seen someone so devout as to inscribe the Chant into their very skin and he recoiled to think what kind of devotion it might require.

The man smiled at him, a smile devoid of malice but also of any trace of warmth. He smiled like it was just another mechanical ritual, designed to put someone at ease. "Cullen Rutherford. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. We have much to discuss."

"Where is Solona Amell?" Cullen demanded.

The man did not answer; he only studied. "Oh, and where are my manners? You may call me Ten, now that we will be spending some time together. So . . ." The man paused, clasping his hands together, and his silvery eyes gleamed in the dimness. "What shall we discuss today, Cullen?"

Cullen went cold, hearing those words that Marian had muttered so often from her nightmares, a refrain he had already guessed must have featured in her torture. He swallowed.

"I know!" Ten said, as if he had only now come upon a topic to discuss. "Let's talk about . . . Marian Hawke." The man's eyes lit up like this was one of his favorite subjects, but the odd silver color of his irises cast his interest as coolly malevolent.

"I won't tell you anything about her."

"Oh," Ten said, chuckling humorlessly, "you don't really have to. I know Marian quite well. Quite well. I daresay perhaps better even than you do. But then, that's really what we're here to discuss." Ten tilted his head again, as if trying to get a better angle on seeing into Cullen's thoughts. "So when did you first meet Marian? I don't believe you were part of her inner circle when last she and I spoke."

"You will pay for what you did to her," Cullen said in an intense voice that he almost did not recognize as his own.

"No need for threats. I am just here to talk. Tell me more about these feelings of revenge. And I sense perhaps a trace of ownership? When did those start?" Ten asked curiously.

Cullen jammed his mouth shut. He was damned if he would help this man in any way, whatever it was he wanted.

"She always valued friendship highly, her friends as important as family in a way. Prizing their lives, and their secrets, more highly than her own." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "So where exactly do you fit in? Former templar? An odd friend for someone of Marian's leanings. I imagine you must get on famously with Anders."

The steady stream of mild words from the man, and the discomfiting familiarity with which he spoke about Hawke, unnerved Cullen. He found himself listening, carried along by the words, and now reacting to them as he found himself glaring at the man at his mention of Anders.

"Ah, yes," Ten said, "that's what I thought. Not a fan of Anders. That must make your friendship with Marian complex. Or perhaps that is part of the allure for her?"

Cullen started at the suggestion, and Ten's keen eyes noted the reaction again. "Perhaps a templar makes perfect sense after so many years of pain and suffering at the hands of Anders and his mage-born ideals. Someone stolid, reliable, uncontroversial." Ten watched for a reaction to his inflectionless suppositions, but Cullen just glowered at him. "Yet also . . . broken?"

"You can't bait me," Cullen said.

Ten smiled again and continued to speak in his sing song voice, unhurriedly poking and probing about Cullen's relationship with Hawke. Whenever he hit upon an emotional reaction, Ten would zero in and redirect his questions with uncanny precision until eventually he had pieced together most of the story of Cullen's stuttered path toward falling in love with Marian Hawke. No matter how hard Cullen tried to suppress any reaction, the slightest quaver would reveal too much. Cullen felt unclean as Ten peeled back layer after layer of Cullen's resistance, lulling him with that voice and those strange silver eyes that saw everything Cullen tried to hide.

"With so much at stake this week, I do wonder that you're not together," Ten probed in his way of asking without asking. He kept returning to this point, of why Cullen insisted he was no longer involved with Hawke, and steadily became more insistent. "Tell me, Cullen, how could you leave her alone during such dangerous proceedings as the peace talks? Isn't she also overseeing security? One nervous mage, and she will have a disaster on her hands. She could use someone with your abilities, protecting her. Why aren't you with her?" Ten's placid face crinkled in puzzlement at last.

Cullen again said nothing, his own conflicted emotions about this issue finally making it easier to obscure his reaction altogether. Clearly, Ten was not pleased.

"Tell me," Ten said firmly, using his most direct tone of voice so far. "Tell me why you are not together, Cullen." He gazed into Cullen's eyes and silver flashed briefly.

Cullen opened his mouth, about to explain his fight with Hawke, but then gnashed his teeth back together. "You'll get nothing from me!" he gritted, fighting against the strange compulsion he suddenly felt to share more.

"Oh, that's where you're wrong," Ten said, his sing song voice now imbued with power that thrummed through the air. He looked into Cullen's eyes again, but this time his silver gaze sparked and glowed and Cullen could no longer look away. He was caught in a white hot fire that soothed as it scalded. "Why are you no longer together with Marian, Cullen? Tell me now." The words reverberated through Cullen's chest and then inside his head, keening with power as they wormed their way into Cullen's thoughts, burning and eating as they spread.

Cullen screamed, making sounds or words, he did not know, saying anything that came to mind, anything that would end the pain. But it went on, drowning out cogent thought, drilling through reason, burning it all away until just as suddenly, it stopped.

Everything was quiet, deathly quiet. Cullen was breathing heavily, but there was still no sound. Nothing. Not even his own breath or heartbeat. His breathing sped up and he took several more gulping breaths, listening desperately, drawing deep on any shred of calm he had left, until finally a wave of sound broke through. He heard his own exhalation of breath into the genuine stillness of his cell. He slowly opened his eyes to see that he had crumpled to the ground with his face pressed to the cool stone of the floor. His mouth throbbed and he tasted blood from where he must have split his lip on impact.

He sat up unsteadily to see Ten still standing in front of his cell. The man blinked owlishly at him. "Now we are getting somewhere. She told you to leave. You think she no longer cares about you. Interesting. And, unfortunately for you, not helpful at all. So let's talk a bit more."

Ten smiled as Cullen braced himself for more, holding tight to his memories of Hawke even as the man plundered them.

ooXXoo

_One Day Before Peace Talks_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

On the day before the talks, the Lord Seeker and his entourage moved into the Chantry compound with more fanfare than Hawke would have expected. Marchand immediately sent for her to attend him— _attend_ being his actual word choice—and confirm all necessary details. Hawke asked Alistair if someone from his inner circle should also come, but Alistair demurred with his usual laissez faire attitude, leaving all the security arrangements to Hawke. She thought about bringing Varric, but in the past two days, things with her friends had gone from awkward to frigid.

"Maybe it's for the best that he's gone," Varric had started again that morning. "He's no good for you, Hawke.

"Don't say that!" she had snapped, the tension finally getting to her.

"I just don't want you to get your hopes up. Even if he is in trouble, and even if you do find him, and get him out of trouble, then what? You still have a boatload of problems to figure out."

"Then, I'll figure them out. But I'm not giving up on him."

"But—"

"No Varric! Don't! Not this time. I just . . . I can't. I just can't."

"All right." Varric only looked at her sadly without saying anything now, and Merrill, picking up on his mood, looked like she was constantly on the verge of tears.

Fenris was philosophical about the whole thing, as he always was, and would not take sides openly. But he glowered more than usual whenever Cullen's name was brought up. So Hawke did not.

In contrast, Anders had taken a renewed interest in her preparations for the talks, asking after her well-being, and generally being more agreeable than normal. He continued to ignore her desperate search for Cullen, however, pretending like Cullen had never even joined their group, which was almost worse than the accusatory silence of the others.

In the end, Hawke found herself responding to the Lord Seeker's summons alone.

She crossed the nave of the Chantry cathedral toward its more private sectors while her anxious need to return to the search for Cullen gnawed at her patience. As Alistair had pledged the day before, the palace guard had begun to assist in her search, but their thoroughness meant that Hawke was now tracking down countless slim leads that so far had all led nowhere. Her stomach twisted in knots as she passed the Red Lady's chapel, her eyes automatically scanning its empty pews for a sign. Anxiety drove her to walk faster and finish her business with the Lord Seeker quickly.

Eventually, Hawke got far enough into the inner sanctum that a chantry initiate questioned her presence there and, on learning Hawke's identity, led her the rest of the way in. They passed down a hallway ringing with the clang of arms and the shout of orders that signaled they had entered the templar barracks. Doors along the corridor opened up onto neat rows of bunks and a few larger rooms with soldiers marching in formation or sparring. The level of activity was much higher than Hawke remembered from her days visiting the Gallows in Kirkwall, but given the unusual circumstances in Kirkwall, she had no way of knowing what was normal for a templar barracks. The number of bodies and the level of training energy made her feel like they were preparing for something, but how that might relate to the peace talks, she was not sure.

Finally, the initiate took her through a large stone archway and into a bright, circular room high up in one of the towers that looked out over Denerim in all directions. Hawke exhaled in appreciation and immediately walked to the windows to see the view.

"Stunning, is it not?"

Hawke spun around to see the Lord Seeker behind her, smiling charismatically like he was the lord and master of the compound.

"It is," she replied.

Marchand clasped his hands behind his back and strode up to one of the windows. "Whenever I come to Denerim I request this room."

"I can see why. It's lovely," she said politely.

"You can see all the way to the Amaranthine Sea in one direction, and up both rivers in the other. It is almost impossible for someone to advance on you without your knowledge from this location. It is one of the reasons the templars of old built it here. It's alike in many ways to the impregnability of Fort Drakon." Marchand continued to gaze out the window while he spoke in a light, almost scholarly tone, but Hawke knew enough now to look for the double meaning in his words.

"I believe Fort Drakon was chosen for the talks, My Lord, not for its impregnability but for its historical significance," she said, matching his tone and vague smile. "So many people with disparate views and beliefs united here a decade ago to defeat the Archdemon and save Thedas from the Fifth Blight. It is that harmony of purpose we hope to reproduce at this newly historic meeting."

"Indeed, we can hope," Marchand replied before turning back to face her. "And so, here we are. The Templar Order answers Ferelden's call for peace. Have the mages also done as much?"

"We have not heard from them recently, but we anticipate they will arrive in time for the talks themselves."

"Ah yes. I had forgotten that they have trust issues with this meeting. Well, as you can see, we stand ready. To review, we may bring twenty four souls to Fort Drakon tomorrow, is that correct? Four to the peace table and no more than twenty for an honor guard?"

"Yes, that's right. But no weapons."

"An honor guard that bears no weapons," he said, his voice dripping in disdain.

"Yes, this was one of the mages' requirements."

"You are so accommodating," he murmured, eyes shining. "Some would say that the mages themselves are weapons. Are they allowed to come, too?"

Her temper started to fray at the Lord Seeker's constant jabs, and she wondered for the thousandth time why she had been thrust into the diplomat's role when she was so ill-suited for it. She half-expected the light touch of fingertips at the small of her back and a warm whisper in her ear of _Easy, Grace_.

The sudden jolt of bitter reality was enough for her to reign back in her bad temper. She smiled and laughed, like the Lord Seeker has just made a droll joke. "Indeed, My Lord, we are all dangerous in our own right when pushed too far. The important thing is that we adhere to the basic principle of coming to the table with open hands."

 _Cullen would have been impressed at that vapid syllogism_ , she thought proudly.

"So how will you ensure this, Champion? Will you collect weapons at the door?"

"Yes, something like that," she replied, still annoyed that it had somehow become her job, even if it was finally something she was qualified to do.

"And will the former Knight-Captain be there as well?" Marchand asked with glittering eyes.

She was taken off guard by the painful reminder. "I . . . I-It is unclear, My Lord, but I hope so," she said, trying to put on a brave face.

"Hmm, I thought he was something of a personal bodyguard for you."

"Um, h-he has left the city, but I anticipate he will be back in time. You need not worry, My Lord, the fort will be well protected."

"I see. I see," Marchand tutted, as if this answer was far more interesting than it really was. "And, here I thought there was something of a more . . . personal connection there."

"M-my Lord?" She was confounded that his questions would touch so sensitively on her heartbreak.

"The heart can be so easily betrayed. How craven of him."

"He isn't! He hasn't! How dare—" she snapped without thinking. "My apologies," she added softly, averting her eyes.

"No, I should apologize," Marchand said, nodding sagely. "Lost love is—"

"He will be back," she said quickly. "But then, our business is our own."

"Oh, I did not mean to pry into your personal life, Champion," he said, somehow smug. "I was only curious as to who would be present to ensure security at Fort Drakon. Will the palace guard or the city guard help you manage access?"

"The palace guard, actually," she said, trying not to be short with all his questions.

"Ah, yes, that makes sense. The city guard does have a kinship with Denerim's templars, after all."

"I, well, perhaps. I think it was simply expediency, but never fear, security is our priority." She cleared her throat, hoping to change the subject. "Was there anything else you needed, Lord Seeker? If you have other questions, I would be pleased to pass them onto the King."

"No, no, that is all. I look forward to seeing you again soon, Champion."

"And you as well, My Lord. Good day." More quickly than was polite, she turned on her heel and marched back the way she had come.

Once she exited the Chantry and had blended in with the city crowds, she took a deep breath to wash away the bad taste in her mouth from Marchand's uncomfortable questions. "What a waste of my time," she grumbled.

Whatever Marchand's purpose in calling her to the Chantry, she put it firmly out of her mind to focus on the latest clue, something about a scuffle in a shady neighborhood near the river. She would find out what happened to Cullen and Solona and not even the peace talks were going to slow her down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to start post these more frequently now that I'm just about done with the series. The epilogue is with my beta, so the end is nigh! Woo hooo! **Next: Chapter 27: Peace Talks** , where the peace talks finally begin.


	27. Peace Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the peace talks begins uneventfully until the Lord Seeker makes Hawke a deal she cannot refuse.

_One Day Before Peace Talks_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

Cullen awoke to the sound of heavy footsteps approaching his cell again and so he did his best to crawl to his feet and face his captor with dignity. He groaned as every nerve ending protested and rubbed dried blood off his face from where he had fallen. A day later and he still hurt from head to toe, inside and out, even though Ten had not laid a finger on him physically.

Cullen had no idea what had been done to him, only that the experience set his own senses jangling with a dull ache like the pangs of lyrium withdrawal. Whoever this man with the silver eyes was, his abilities had unsettling similarities to things Cullen had only seen hints of during his templar training.

Cullen braced himself for another round, but today the approaching footsteps were different and yet uniquely familiar. They were the sounds of tramping feet he had heard his entire life long. The clank of iron-shod boots. The swish of tabards and long skirts brushing on stairs. The rattle of plate armor, steel blades and hard shields. When they finally turned the corner and approached his cell, he was already expecting templars. What he was not expecting was the Lord Seeker.

Colin Marchand frowned down at Cullen through the bars of his cell.

"Lord Seeker," Cullen cried. "What is the meaning of this? Release me at once."

Marchand merely smiled. "That won't be happening just yet. I have a rather pressing engagement tomorrow, and I think you could prove to be useful."

Cullen frowned suspiciously at mention of the peace talks. "Useful in what way?"

The Lord Seeker shook his head. "I still don't understand how you could've fallen so low. From what I understand from Kirkwall, you had a promising future ahead of you, Cullen. All that potential, wasted on being a mage sympathizer. So I think that this is a fitting end." Marchand studied the cell holding Cullen before looking back at him with a calculating look. "Fitting that you would help me bring down the mage rebellion at long last. As well as the woman who helped spark that rebellion and has been a thorn in the side of the Templar Order for far too long."

A white hot core of rage settled in Cullen's chest and with an almost guttural growl, he said, "Do not even think about hurting Marian Hawke."

Marchand shrugged. "To be honest, that avenue has never really worked out very well for us in the past. She is such a difficult woman. So we're trying things a little differently this time."

"This time . . ." Cullen gasped. _Of course._ " _You_ were behind her capture after she escaped Kirkwall. _You_ were searching for Anders."

Marchand's eyes grew cold and snakelike at mention of the mage's name. "After these three years, the time has finally come for the Terrorist of Kirkwall to pay for what he did to Elthina. For what he did to Kirkwall. With everyone at the Peace Talks, there will be no one to save him this time. He will fall just as we crush the mage underground. Which is where you come in."

"I will not help you. And, when I leave here, I will kill you for what you did to Hawke," Cullen said fiercely, meaning every word.

"Now, now. No one needs to get hurt. Not even your precious Hawke. So long as you cooperate with us. You used to be good at following orders, no? It's what the townsfolk in Kirkwall used to say about their knight captain. Loyal, they said. Dutiful. It's good that they cannot see you now, and how you failed them."

Anger simmered through Cullen's veins. He had leveled similar accusations at himself over the years. So it was a change for him to realize at long last that they were utterly unfounded.

"I have always striven to do what is right," Cullen said. "Even if that conflicts with what the Order dictates. No one will dictate my moral code any longer. Especially when I see how far the Order has fallen."

"Fallen? On the contrary. We rise and only continue to strengthen. And now we will be able to put down our biggest threat once and for all. Thanks to you, and your beloved Hawke."

"Whatever you're planning, it won't work."

"We shall see. The Agent tells me that you insist Hawke does not have _feelings_ for you. But you have clearly shown you have feelings for her."

Cullen's pulse sped up, realizing how much he had revealed. He gritted his teeth painfully and willed his exhausted sensibilities to stop reacting to their manipulations.

"No need to deny it," Marchand said, eyes sliding away like Cullen was failing to hold his attention. "Luckily for me, neither could she."

Cold panic flashed through Cullen and he felt all the blood drain from his face as Marchand smirked and the jaws of his trap fully closed. Anders had been right all along. Cullen was only a liability for Hawke. "But . . . She . . . No, she doesn't care about me! Not anymore. It's over!"

Marchand chuckled and rolled his eyes. "Regardless, she still seems rather invested in you. As you are in her." He shook his head. "Such foolish sentiment. But useful, in the right hands. So for now, you and the Hero of Ferelden shall remain my guests. I do appreciate that you both came back to town just in time."

"Where is Solona?" At least it sounded like she was still alive.

"She is in good hands. Very good hands. But, sadly, not in a position to help you." Cullen set his jaw as he tried not to picture Ten having one of his discussions with Solona. "But, not to worry. It won't be long. History waits for no man," Marchand said before leaving Cullen to stew over his helplessness.

ooXXoo

_The Day of the Peace Talks_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

Just as Alistair had predicted, the mages had arrived. They had traveled under cover of night, taking advantage of the moonless darkness, to arrive at dawn with the rising new moon on the morning of the talks. Luckily the sleepy guards at the gate had been sufficiently warned so that when 100 robed mages carrying deadly staves arrived all at once, they were admitted with barely a question. A messenger ran ahead to the palace and alerted Alistair with a written note from Fiona herself. The note said that they would head directly to Fort Drakon and await the other parties there. Alistair was seen running around the palace with only sleep pants on, shouting for everyone to hurry up.

Hawke sat sandy eyed over her morning tea, which was doing little to perk her up into wakefulness. She had spent the whole previous day running into dead ends in her search for Cullen. Her most promising lead, something about an attack near the inn where the Warden had been seen, had led her to the slums by the river, but then the trail had gone cold after that. She did not know at this point whether to laugh or to cry, so instead she just drank her tea in silence.

The sunroom was otherwise empty, since her interactions with her friends had become so strained that it was easier now for them simply not to speak at all. No one would be accompanying her to Fort Drakon. So here she was, at the conclusion of all their hard work over the past months, the end of the road and the beginning of peace, and she was alone. She took a quick sip of her overly hot tea and burned her mouth, but at least it quelled the tears starting to prick behind her eyes.

With a heavy sigh, she returned to her room. She was slowly donning her would-be-Champion's armor in preparation for the talks when there came a soft knock at her door. She quickly buckled on her wide belt and opened the door to find an almost unrecognizable Anders. He was dressed in a traditional circle mage robes of dark blue, the first time she had seen him so attired, but perhaps more uncharacteristic was his expression of nervous contrition. His fingers drummed against his staff where he held it upright like a walking stick.

He cleared his throat and asked, "May I walk with you?"

She looked him up and down, head to toe, twice, before answering. "Um, sure. Although, where exactly are you headed?"

"I . . ." He cleared his throat again and could no longer meet her eyes. "I will be joining the mages at Fort Drakon. They have asked me to participate in the negotiations."

"Participate in the negotiations," she haltingly repeated, the words for some reason not making any sense. She shook her head to see if that would help. "You're . . . coming to Fort Drakon?"

He sighed and in a strained voice said, "Hawke, don't make this harder than it already is. Yes, Rhys asked me to join them at the peace talks. I-I didn't tell you because you've been, well, so preoccupied with Cullen." His eyes slid away again before coming back to her face, waiting for her to respond.

What little enthusiasm she had for the day fully slipped away and her shoulders slumped. "I suppose I have been." She looked him over again, but this time, really looked. Instead of the bitter set to his jaw or the sarcastic twist to his mouth, she saw the clear light of purpose shine from his eyes. His shoulders were squared in lines of determination and he held his head high. "You've joined the mages."

He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. "I have. I thought it was time to finish what I started. It's my responsibility, after all, a friend once reminded me." His fingers continued to drum against his staff.

She had been so wrapped up in her own problems the past few weeks, she had missed the signs that Anders had rejoined the world. All without her. She smiled sadly since it was about time. "Responsibility looks good on you."

He shrugged. "So does a little rebellion." He then grinned with an irrepressible twinkle in his eye, reminding her of the crusading healer she had once fallen in love with back in that squalid clinic in the undercity of Kirkwall.

She bit her lip. "I would be honored if you would walk with me. It will give me a chance to figure out how you hid this from me."

"A mage doesn't share his tricks, My Lady." He held out his arm to her, which she took gladly.

ooXXoo

All too soon, Hawke was huffing up the steep, winding path at the edge of town. She rounded what she hoped was the final turn and arrived on a broad, paved landing, only to pause in awe. The walled courtyard and Andrastian statuary on the landing showed signs of recent construction, but the ancient Tevinter design of the tower soaring above them was unmistakable. Fort Drakon. The actual site of the end of the Fifth Blight. Hawke had never been more overwhelmed by the accomplishment of her famous cousin than she was standing at the foot of the massive stone fort. It was so hard to imagine what it must have felt like, climbing such a tower in order to face an immortal dragon of legend. And then slay it.

Fort Drakon was by far the most distinctive landmark in Denerim. The fort's size and position at the highest point of the city, where it could only be reached through a twisting maze of inclines through the streets of the Palace District, made the fort a natural point of defense. As the Lord Seeker had pointed out, it was unassailable. As the Hero of Ferelden would probably point out, after having infiltrated the fort several times, there was always a way.

"Impressive, isn't it?" said Alistair, walking up beside Hawke and Anders to gaze upwards at the fortress. Behind the King, Teagan Guerrin stood with the other courts' ambassadors sent to witness the proceedings. They were flanked by a complement of golden plated guards who had accompanied them from the palace.

"Is it different now?" Anders asked Alistair.

"A little. Those buttresses didn't stick out so far." He motioned at the western side of the fort. "And up on top of the roof, the Warden's Chapel where we'll hold the talks is new. But the tower. The tower was always this awesome. Even with an archdemon perched on top." He grinned at them with a boyish enthusiasm at odds with the gravity of the peace talks.

"Amazing," was all Hawke could say in response. She had seen some crazy things in her time in Kirkwall, but the fight against the Archdemon still sounded like a battle of another caliber entirely. No wonder the people of Denerim venerated Solona Amell the way they did.

"So, not to be rude, Anders," Alistair began mildly, "but I thought we had agreed that you would avoid public buildings?"

Anders shared a glance with Hawke. "Yes, we did, Your Majesty, but I'm here as a representative of the mage underground. I will be participating in the negotiations."

Alistair's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "Oh really?" He gave Hawke an accusatory look.

"I didn't know either," she said. "But to be fair, he is now protected by the neutrality of the talks."

Alistair set his jaw angrily, an uncommon expression for the usually jovial king. "You realize this puts me in an awkward position? Expecting me to publicly give you political asylum?"

"The mage underground is already receiving asylum," Anders insisted. "We're here because we also want an end to the war. What better way to put Kirkwall in the past than to forge a brighter future?"

Alistair was silent for so long that Hawke started to mentally calculate the height of the drop off behind them in case of a quick escape. Finally, Alistair sighed. "Very well. But only until the end of the talks. After that, your fate is out of my hands and hopefully, out of my country. Do we have an understanding?"

"We do," Anders said, unfazed.

"Well, all right, then." Alistair squared his shoulders and resumed his smile, now slightly less genuine. "Shall we?" Alistair motioned toward the heavy doors into the gatehouse at the foot of the tower.

"If we must," Hawke said, already having a bad feeling about today.

The two massive double doors were guarded by palace guards in gleaming golden plate, replacing the city guards who usually manned the fort. The guards stood at rigid attention as their king approached, and saluted when he passed. Inside, the entry hall was vast, and the many polished stone surfaces made the room echo. The hall then narrowed down to smaller entryway that led to the secure sectors of the fortress. Along the walls, rounded Andrastian iconography contrasted with the sharp angles of the original Tevinter architecture.

A large crowd of milling mages filled the hall, numbering far more than the twenty four people they were allowed to bring. The palace guard held the crowd at bay and announced the King in a booming voice, as he strode through the crowd toward the internal doors. Hawke and the others followed in his wake.

Hawke could now see Rhys standing with Evangeline, who was resplendent in heavy plate and a red cloak, reminiscent of her days as a templar. Rhys still looked the middle-aged frumpy scholar, making him seem far less threatening than perhaps was prudent.

Beside them, Fiona literally tapped her foot this time. "And, how long do we have to wait? We came, and now we wait on your pleasure to enter the tower?" She stood out from the crowd in her distinctive white robes of the Grand Enchanter.

"Fiona, how lovely to see you," Hawke murmured. "Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, allow me to present to you Fiona, former Grey Warden, former Grand Enchanter of the College of Enchanters."

Like the last time Alistair had been mentioned, this immediately tongue-tied Fiona, although Hawke could not explain why. The mage reddened and then paled, her eyes widening with a strange vulnerability that Hawke would never have expected. "Alistair," Fiona said hardly above a whisper.

"Ah, yes, that's me. How do you do?" Alistair eyebrows shot up at Fiona's odd reaction, and he quickly moved onto Rhys and Evangeline. "How do you do? Alistair Theirin."

"Rhys, Your Majesty," replied the mage, "and this is Evangeline de Brassard, former Knight-Captain of the White Spire."

"Nice to meet you. All of you. And this is Ambassador Teagan Guerrin, Bann of Rainesfere." He waved a hand at Teagan, who nodded solemnly at the mage leaders. "And the other ambassadors." Alistair waved at the other country representatives from Orlais, Starkhaven, Nevarra, Ostwick, and Kirkwall, who all looked startled to be passed over.

Teagan gave a beleaguered sigh at Alistair's lack of diplomacy. "I don't think the King needs to manage the formal introductions," Teagan suggested pointedly.

Alistair only grinned. "I think the King just wants to get started. We can do introductions upstairs. So, Hawke, what now?"

"All right," Hawke said, turning to Fiona. "According to your own requirements, you may only bring a limited number of people into the fortress."

"Yes, we know, Hawke. I name myself, Rhys, Evangeline." Fiona paused, her eyes flicked sourly to Anders as she added, "And Anders."

Palace Guard Captain Deacon stood impassively with another two dozen guards waiting near the passage deeper into the keep, but on hearing Anders's name, Deacon shot a startled look at Hawke and Alistair. "Anders? _The_ Anders?"

Anders went completely still beside her, and on her other side, Alistair sighed quietly. "Yes, Deacon, all mages have our protection here. Even him."

Deacon was too much a professional to question it further, so merely nodded.

"Okay," Hawke said into the awkward pause. "You will have to surrender your staff and other weapons to the Captain of the Palace Guard here. Then you can also send in your honor guard. No more than twenty."

"Yes, we know," Fiona said. She and the other three mages moved to turn over their staves while a column of twenty mages and men-at-arms followed suit and disappeared through the entryway to the stairs up the mountain.

Rhys turned back to Hawke before continuing on. "Hawke, will you be joining us for the talks?"

"No, I'll be down here ensuring things go smoothly. Diplomacy is not really my strong suit, so I leave it in your capable hands."

Rhys nodded. "Be that as it may, you will be missed. Wish us luck."

"Maker watch over you all," she replied automatically.

"Your Majesty," Rhys said, indicating that Alistair should precede him before they both passed on into the tower. They were followed by Teagan and a small contingent of palace guard who had relinquished their swords.

Anders paused a moment before handing over the staff Hawke had once given him, its capstone carved into the graceful figure of a woman. Anders caught Hawke's eye and she smiled back in encouragement, to which he nodded before turning to go.

Once they had departed, Hawke was left with the crowd of remaining mages loitering and talking and generally clogging up the echoing hall. Nearby, she saw Charis, the red-headed mage from West Hill, and asked her if she would redirect her flock out of the fortress for now until the talks were over. There was a lot of grumbling, but then, rules are rules, Hawke reminded them cheerfully.

Hawke was relieved when they finally were gone, since she could only imagine the chaos they would have caused with the arrival of the Lord Seeker. When the mages had arrived so early, Alistair had sent a note to the Chantry advising Marchand of the mages' arrival and enjoining him to come to Fort Drakon at his earliest convenience so that they may start. About an hour after the mages were admitted, the templars arrived, with a full complement of marching soldiers, also numbering far more than the twenty four needed.

At the head of the column, Colin Marchand strode in his distinctive Seeker armor, the white eye marking his contrast to the other men surrounding him in their swords of mercy and templar regalia. Marchand strode up to Hawke, flanked by the three Knights Divine, stoic in their black cloaks of office.

"Champion," Marchand said with a curt nod. "I'm sure you remember my associates, Ser Germaine, Ser Trentwatch, and Ser Arthur, the Knights Divine. We four will be negotiating on behalf of the Order."

"Well met, Lord Seeker. My Lords," she said, nodding at the Knights Divine. "You may turn in your weapons for safe keeping to Deacon, Captain of the Palace Guard." She motioned with her hand, and process began anew.

The Knights passed through to the stairs while Marchand waited beside Hawke. Hawke jumped when she realized that Marchand's pale-faced servant, Lowell, had materialized from the shadows at Marchand's elbow.

"And now for your honor guard?" Hawke asked him.

"Yes, yes. Our honor _attendants_ ," Marchand said, humor coloring his voice. Then in a loud voice, he commanded, "Count off!"

A line of templars passed through, handing over their swords, shields, and sundry daggers and projectiles, to the guards. While Marchand watched them march through, he asked Hawke, "So who will be representing the mages at the peace table?"

"Their leader, Grand Enchanter Fiona—"

"Former Grant Enchanter," Marchand interjected with a smile. "The College of Enchanters is no longer recognized."

"Ah, right. Um, Fiona, Senior Enchanter Rhys, formerly of the White Spire, Evangeline de Brassard, former—"

"Yes, yes, I know them."

Hawke ground her teeth at his interruptions and tried not to retort in kind.

"And the fourth?" he prompted, eyes still watching his troops file into the fort.

"Anders," she said, hesitating, "of Kirkwall."

A visible shock ran through Marchand as he instantly rounded on her, eyes glittering. "Anders, did you say?"

She fought the instinct to step back from his sudden intensity, and instead lifted her chin and repeated in a stronger voice, "Yes, Anders."

"I see." Marchand nodded and steepled his hands together before his lips. She thought she saw his fingers tremble slightly. "Such a bold move. These talks truly will be historic."

Marchand looked over at his servant, who nodded and said, "Yes, My Lord."

When the last of the guard had passed through, Marchand said, "Lowell, let the captains know to move the remaining columns back into formation for the duration of the talks."

"Lord Seeker, there is no need for them wait. We don't yet know how long the talks will last," Hawke told him, just as she had the mages.

Marchand looked down his nose at her. "A templar does his duty. They will wait."

"But—"

"They will wait."

"Very well. You can go in then, My Lord." Hawke was ready for him to be gone, as there was something even creepier and more high-handed about his attitude today than the day before.

"Yes, I know, but first, if I may have a quick moment of your time, Champion." Marchand smiled one of his dazzling smiles that must make many women swoon. It only made Hawke nervous.

"What is it?"

"It will take just a moment. But it is of a delicate nature. Please," he insisted, indicating a short flight of stairs that led outside onto the battlement around the top of the gatehouse.

"All right," she said, unable to think of a polite reason to refuse. She proceeded through the heavy wooden door onto the wide stone battlement. The wind murmured expectantly through the angular crenellations through which Hawke could see the rooftops of Denerim in the distance. Marchand joined her a minute later and Lowell discreetly shut the door behind them, giving them some privacy.

The Lord Seeker walked over to the parapet and looked out at the city. "Not quite the same view as from the Chantry tower, is it? But then, I'm sure it's far more moving up at the top."

"What do you want, Marchand?" she asked, already tired of the man's non sequiturs and games.

"Even from here, though, I can see the Chantry cathedral, towering over all below. I'm sure you remember it."

She waited for him to make his point, a vague sense of dread bubbling up in her stomach.

"One part of the Chantry, I think you did not get a chance to see would be the dungeon." He glanced over at her casually, knowing he had her full attention now. "Pity, really, since there's someone there waiting for you."

Her whole body reacted in shock as she started to understand at last the Lord Seeker's game. His intrusive questions about Cullen from the day before now fit into a larger puzzle.

"You dare?" she hissed.

"Now, now, these next few minutes will be rather important for Cullen's future, so let's put some thought into what is said next."

"If you have harmed even one hair on his head, I will end you," she snarled, fury crackling through her like poison, sickening her as it burned.

"I will harm much more than that, if you do not come with me this instant." His eyes suddenly became very serious, and the game was now afoot.

"Come with you where?"

"The only important answer to that question is: away from here."

"Away?" she said, gaping at him. "You mean, leave the peace talks? Why? What are you going to do?"

Marchand simply smiled. "That would no longer be your concern. Time is short, though, so what will it be? Save Cullen's life and leave your post here, or ensure his grisly and untimely death by staying?"

"Why would you want to disrupt the talks? What do you have to gain? Peace benefits everyone."

"This is not peace," he said, his lip curling in disdain. "One does not negotiate with terrorists. I will ensure a lasting peace that protects our children and our children's children from the threat of magic unchecked. As Holy Andraste has so decreed." Marchand piercing blue eyes bore into hers, and she thought she might have just seen into madness.

"I won't let you do this," she whispered.

"Oh, but you will if you would see your lover again. So choose."

She looked away, unsure what to do as her options fell away like so many falling leaves. "How do I know you even have him?"

"Ah, I had hoped you would be cleverer. Here." He tossed something to her.

It was a ring Cullen always wore with a small sword of mercy. "Not good enough," she said, baring her teeth. "Cullen told me every templar receives a ring like this after he takes his vows."

Marchand laughed at her, a deep rolling laugh of genuine amusement that crawled over her skin. "And here I thought you would know all of your lover's secrets. Flip over the bezel."

"Wha—?" She pressed on the bezel, which immediately flipped upside down to reveal the damning eye and sword symbol from Cullen's waxen seals. "No," she breathed.

"Yes. Is that proof enough? I doubt most templars are also serving as Chantry spies."

She was defeated. She did not know what else to say or do. She wished she was smarter or braver or perhaps weaker, so that she could just leave Cullen to his fate or somehow save him and the peace talks simultaneously. But her mind had gone blank, and she was out of ideas. She had never felt so alone.

"You expect me to let all these people die just to save one man?" she asked in a small voice, knowing as Marchand no doubt did, that her resolve was crumbling and the question was directed as much at herself as it was at him. It helped to say the words out loud, to acknowledge the absurdity of sacrificing the mage rebellion and a peaceful end to the war all for one man's life. No matter the man.

Marchand's eyes narrowed slightly and he watched her intently as he said, "What if I said it was one man . . . and one woman? One very important woman."

She gasped. _No._ "You have no right to hold the Hero of Ferelden hostage!"

"I wonder what the King of Ferelden will offer me for that one very important woman." Marchand tilted his head at her quizzically. "I understand they were once very _close_. Shall we see if he's in a better position to bargain? Or perhaps his wife is, instead?"

"You wouldn't."

"The choice is yours alone, Champion. But only for the moment. And that moment is slipping away."

She looked out over the city below, eyes searching as if somehow it would show her another way. But all she could see was the Chantry tower in the distance. She took deeper, longer breaths, as if she could somehow slow down time and give herself more time to think. But her time was up, and she had no real choice. Not if he was holding both Cullen and Solona.

"So what do you want me to do?" she asked in a hollow voice.

"Follow me," he said with an oily smile. "And don't alert anyone to our little interchange, or with one signal to my manservant, Cullen and the Warden are as good as dead."

"And what assurances do I have that you won't just kill them anyway?"

He chuckled. "You have none. But know this." He took her chin in his hand and she struggled not to recoil in disgust. "Once I have what I want, you will all be free to go. I have nothing further to gain from their deaths. Or yours. Provided you do as I say right now."

She clenched her jaw and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Marchand led them back inside and as they approached the palace guardsmen, he said softly for her ears alone, "After I go in, you will dismiss the guard, now that their duty is done."

She looked down the lines of armed templars within the large hall, standing there just waiting for her to leave, and pictured the massacre about to take place. The massacre that would begin with Deacon and his guards unless she could get them to leave first.

Marchand watched her closely before signaling to Lowell, who appeared at his elbow. "You will then follow Lowell to where you need to go. And, no tricks. Lowell will be here in case you falter. If you deviate from this plan, Cullen is dead. You alert anyone, Cullen is dead. And his female friend as well."

Marchand smiled pleasantly and said in a more audible voice, "Thank you for your time, Champion. Now onward to make history!" He then sauntered over to Deacon, dropped off the two-handed broadsword that had hung at his hip, and headed into the interior of the fort. He glanced back at Hawke once before disappearing from view.

Hawke watched the empty doorway for a minute until the guard captain smiled expectantly at her. "My Lady?"

She swallowed, her heart sinking inside as she put on a jovial face. "Well, it looks like our work here is done!"

"It seems so, My Lady," Deacon said.

"You know, Deacon, now that both groups have gone in, I can hold down the fort from here, erm, no pun intended." She forced herself to laugh at her awkward phrasing.

"Are you sure? I think the King expected us to stay until the talks are finished."

"No, really, it's fine. The city guard are still in the barracks nearby if we need anything. But you . . ." She paused as her voice broke. "You and the others can return to the palace for now. It's going to be a long wait." She rolled her eyes and chuckled falsely. "You know how much they like to hear themselves talk. The King most of all."

Deacon smiled. "I understand, ma'am. But I don't know that it's prudent for us to leave yet."

She smiled back stiffly. "I insist. You're officially dismissed."

He hesitated before inclining his head. "As you wish, My Lady. But send word if you need anything. Anything at all."

"I will."

She waited while the palace guard that had supported her screening process in the gatehouse prepared to march. Some of the guard remained above overseeing the talks, but they were unarmed and unaware of the force that was about to fall upon them. She waited calmly, screaming inside, until Deacon and the others disappeared from view.

"You may leave your own weapons behind as well, My Lady," Lowell said. She eyed him speculatively, and he immediately added, "And, no ideas, now. We will be well accompanied." With that, a unit of six armed templars surrounded them.

Her head drooped and all she could do was add her own blades to the pile, and then follow Lowell as he moved toward the exit. "This way, My Lady," he murmured as if they were just stepping out for some air.

When they emerged, Lowell gave a signal to one of the captains, and part of the templar host peeled off and started its way into the fort. She could only watch helplessly until the man behind her nudged her forward. A hot tear welled up in her eye as she walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: **Chapter 28: Pariahs**. Thanks for reading!


	28. Pariahs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke must face the consequences of her choice at Fort Drakon, and some unexpected and rancorous reunions.

_The Chantry_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

Sooner than Hawke would have liked, she was being led by Lowell and his templar escort into the courtyard before the Chantry. Passing into the cathedral, Lowell gave her several warning glances that made it clear that if she caused trouble, the templars would stop her before it did any good.

Instead of the path up to the airy tower that she had followed the day before, Lowell led her down dank, moldy stairs into the gloomy depths of the Chantry. Hawke had not realized that a chantry building would actually have dungeons, although if it held templars, it made sense that the templars might hold prisoners. They went two levels down before they moved down a narrow hall that was faced with tall cell doors made of iron bars. Most cells were empty, but she still scanned every single one. Finally the corridor opened up onto the last cells, and she ran forward, but a signal from Lowell caused one of the templars to grab her from behind and hold her. She struggled and fought until Lowell cleared his throat to get her attention.

She stopped and the templar set her down on her feet, but still did not let go. The commotion had woken the prisoner, and soon shadowed, golden eyes were looking out at her through the bars.

"Cullen!"

"Hawke! No," he moaned. The circles under his eyes had deepened, and his whole face was pinched in pain. Lines of dried blood ran down from his mouth to his chin where someone had split his upper lip on his right side.

She struggled again, trying to reach him. "Let me go!" she growled, and finally, after a nod from Lowell, the templar let go. She hurtled herself to her knees, reaching for him through the bars as he struggled to rise. She stroked his face, his hair, his shoulders, anything she could reach to convince herself he was real. She carefully reached down to the dark stain above his belt, but only touched whole skin through the rent in his jerkin.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He nodded even though it obviously was not true. He reached through the bars and tenderly brushed her hair back from her face. "What happened? Are you injured? Where is the Lord Seeker?"

"I-I'm fine. The Lord Seeker, he's . . . he's at the peace talks. Cullen, I think he's going to do something terrible."

"Then you need to stop him! How did they capture you?"

"I . . ." Her throat went dry on any explanation.

Cullen frowned, glancing once at Lowell and then back again. "Hawke, what happened?"

She opened her mouth but before she could think of what to say, Lowell said smugly, "Oh, we did not need to capture her."

"But . . ." Cullen said in confusion.

"I . . . Cullen, I'm so sorry. I couldn't let him . . . I couldn't . . ." Her throat closed as her tears welled up.

"Oh no," Cullen moaned, closing his eyes in defeat. "No! Maker above, not because of me. Oh please, no." He held onto the bars, leaning his head against them in despair, and she held his face between her hands, holding it like it was the most precious thing in the world. And in that moment, perhaps it was.

"I couldn't let him kill you," she said, her voice rough with the tears that started again to fall.

He looked up at her, and a single tear rolled through the grime on his face. "I'm not worth this, Grace," he whispered, his voice breaking.

"You are to me," she said, her throat so constricted she was almost unable to speak. She pressed her face to the bars and kissed him, and then sobbed harder when he kissed her back.

"Yes, this is all quite riveting, I'm sure," Lowell said behind them in a bored voice, "but we need to get you into your own cell now, My Lady. Just until the talks are over."

One of the templars held open an adjacent cell and unceremoniously threw her inside. She yelped as she tumbled to the ground, and Cullen reared up, roaring his anger.

Lowell looked between them. "Now you just sit tight here for a time while the Lord Seeker deals with the mages once and for all, and then you two will be free to go. Pariahs to friend and foe alike for allowing such a massacre to happen on your watch." He smiled. "Have a nice day." Then Lowell turned and left with the templars following behind him.

Hawke took several gasping breaths trying to calm her emotions so she could start to think clearly. Cullen remained where he was on his knees, eyes shut, forehead pressed against the bars.

"I'm so sorry, Hawke."

"No, it's all my fault. I . . . I didn't know what else to do. He told me I had to come here with him, or you and Solona would die."

"Grace . . ." Cullen started, but she could not stop.

"And now, look at what I've done," she continued, gulping for breath past the knot in her throat, looking down at her shaking hands in horror. The wave of adrenaline she had ridden for the past few hours finally ebbed away, leaving a cold dead feeling in its wake as reaction set in. "Look at what I've done. Everything that happens now. Every death is on my hands."

"No. No, it is all on me. I earned this. The final outcome of all my betrayals," he said softly. He opened his eyes at last and gazed at her, stricken with guilt. "I'm so sorry. For everything."

His solemn apology finally cut through her self-recriminations. She sat back on her heels on the hard cell floor, suddenly afraid of what she might learn.

"I'm sorry for not telling you the truth," he went on, his voice rusty and dull. "I wanted to. But I must admit, I also hoped you would never find out about the despicable things I've done. I wish I could have been the man you deserve, so I tried to pretend that I was for a time. But lies catch up with everyone sooner or later."

"Cullen, I found something," she said, swallowing in apprehension. "A crumpled up note in your room. I think it was from Leliana. And Cassandra?"

"Wha—? You read it?" he asked, sounding angry.

"I did. I had to know what was going on. Once. . . once I was ready to know."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "And so?"

"Did Cassandra only let you out of prison so that you could spy on me?"

He sighed and bowed his head. "Yes," came the pained response.

"Why?"

"Why?" He laughed, a bitter, self-mocking sound. " _Why not?_ I told myself at the time. Find Marian Hawke, convince her to save the world, let the Chantry know it was working. Seemed a small price at the time to see the Sun again."

"That was what they promised you?"

"Freedom. Reinstatement. But I don't think they expected me to live that long."

"And what if you had refused?"

He shrugged. "I'd still be there now. It was a good deal, until I had to start lying. Until I started to care what you thought about me. Until I started to care about you." He looked away, and she wished she could see his face more clearly.

"What was the note about exactly?"

"I . . . I was supposed to report regularly to them on our progress. So I would send notes to them through the sisters in the Chantry. In West Hill, I . . . I decided I was done. I told them that I wouldn't be sending them any more information." He snorted bitterly. "You read it. You saw how that worked out."

"They threatened you."

"I should have expected it. Being with you was always a tenuous dream from which I could wake at any moment, so I just tried to hold onto it for as long as I could." He looked around at his cell with eyes dull from hopelessness. "So I have done this. Anders warned me that I was putting you at risk again, by letting you care about me. That I was making you vulnerable. But I was selfish. I couldn't let you go. Not yet." His shoulders slumped. "I was too weak to tell you the truth. And, I was too weak to walk away. It took you finding out for me to finally do the right thing and leave you in peace. And now look where we are." He dropped his head in resignation.

She shook her head back and forth in emphatic denial. "Cullen, no!" she said in frustration. "Anders is wrong. I won't forsake the people I love out of fear. We're stronger together. I wish . . . Together, you and I, we could have faced this thing. Leliana and Cassandra. The peace talks. The Lord Seeker. All of it. You don't have to be alone. I wish you could understand that."

They were both quiet for a time. "My one solace," he said finally, "was that you would be safer with me gone. You should not have come back for me." He squeezed his eyes shut again.

"Cullen . . ." she said, her own guilt softening the admonition in her tone. "It's . . . it's done. I made my choice. And I chose you. You and Solona. The Lord Seeker said he would kill you both if I didn't come with him here. Then he threatened to bargain for your lives with Alistair and who knows what that man would have been willing to do to save Solona. All I know is that it would have been very bad for Ferelden and his marriage. S-so Marchand made me leave Fort Drakon unprotected. He has a whole company of armed templar there with him, waiting to massacre the mages. He wants a new world order or something, where there are no mages."

"It's worse. His real goal had been to find Anders. Hawke, this is all about revenge for Kirkwall. In fact, he's behind your abduction. The man with the silver eyes. He works for Marchand."

"What?" Her heartbeat sped up as the world got very small for a moment and almost tilted out from underneath her.

"I'm sorry to tell you like this, but it has all been Marchand all along. This coup at the peace talks is his opening parlay before he finds Anders here in the city. Your feeling in Jainen was correct. Anders is in danger."

Her vision cleared as concern for Anders pulled her back from the infernal jaws of memory. "More correct than you know," she said. "Anders is at the peace talks now! Rhys included him as their fourth negotiator!"

"So Marchand gets what he wants after all," Cullen mused with a frown.

"Oh, sweet Maker, Cullen! Anders is there!" She covered her mouth as her worst nightmare came true. "Now, after all this time . . . I've led Marchand right to him."

"How can it be that if there's trouble within a ten mile radius, Anders is always at the epicenter?" came a tired but amused voice from the entryway.

ooXXoo

Hawke spun toward the sound. A woman in warden blue with hollows under her eyes and messy, upswept auburn hair smiled at them. Leliana stood at the woman's back with a dark cowl covering her bright hair and an ornate black bow slung across her back.

"Solona!" Cullen cried in relief. Less relieved than puzzled, Hawke's mouth pulled down into a cautious frown.

The two women approached their cells. "Marian Hawke, I presume," Solona said with a friendly smile. "Nice to finally meet you, cousin."

"Likewise," Hawke said, still frowning in puzzlement. "Although I wish it were under better circumstances. How did you escape? The Lord Seeker gave me to believe that you were still being held. I had heard that . . . that you and Cullen were . . . together." Hawke's eyes slid to Cullen, but he was looking at Solona, who smiled at him.

"We were separated when that man with the creepy eyes attacked us. That manipulating bastard let me think they had killed you," she said to Cullen, "until Leliana told me otherwise just now."

Leliana had walked up to Hawke's cell and started to work on the lock with a few long, metal tools. "I have been investigating the Lord Seeker," Leliana said, in a distracted voice as she focused on the lock, "but my agent in his camp has gone silent. When the whispers about Solona also went silent after her arrival in Denerim, I feared the worst. I tracked her here, to the Chantry. I'm still not certain what Marchand plans, but the peace talks were a good distraction for a rescue." She glanced at Cullen, and there might have been a glimmer of guilt in her expression. "But what are you doing here, Hawke? You are supposed to be at the talks."

"The Lord Seeker," Hawke gritted. "He blackmailed me into leaving the fort unprotected by threatening Cullen's and Solona's lives."

"That is unfortunate. We need to get back there."

"Agreed," Hawke said in a clipped voice. "And, so what brings you to Denerim, Sister? More spying? Or just stopping in to ruin the lives of your informants?"

Solona looked apprehensively between Hawke and Leliana.

Leliana's lips pressed into a thin line as she worked at Hawke's lock. She gave it a rough jerk and with a loud click it opened. "There."

Hawke stepped out of her cell. "Thank you," she said grudgingly.

Leliana moved onto Cullen's lock before responding. "We all do what we have to do to create a better world, Hawke. To my eye, Cullen has received quite a bit more than he has had to give since we set him on this path." She glanced briefly at Hawke. "Can you say you haven't given more to your own causes?"

"That was different because I made my own choices. You were manipulating and threatening Cullen!"

"Cullen made his choice as well, or did he not tell you that he chose to help us bring peace in exchange for his freedom?" Leliana remained focused on the lock as she spoke. It came free suddenly, and without so much as a pause Cullen was through the door and holding Leliana against the wall with a forearm pressed to her windpipe.

"Cullen!" Solona cried, stepping forward to intervene, but Hawke gave her a warning glance that stopped her.

Cullen's face contorted in anger as he leaned close to Leliana, who regarded him calmly. "I am no longer your puppet," he said between clenched teeth, the blood streaking his face adding menace to his threat.

"And you never were. If we needed a puppet, we would not have chosen someone like you. But every soldier must follow orders."

"I followed your orders. And that still was not enough."

"Cullen, you must recall where you were in your life when we struck our deal. You were a hollow shell. The contempt you held for Hawke was the only thing we were certain we could count on, and even that was unreliable in the end." Leliana flinched as Cullen suddenly tightened the pressure against her throat, but her voice remained steady and dispassionate. "We did not know if you could rise to the challenge we laid before you. But rise you did and to a level we did not expect. You have, in fact, far exceeded our hopes."

His eyes narrowed at this backhanded compliment. "Then why did you threaten me?"

"Because the mission still comes first!" she snapped, evincing some emotion at last. "Tell me you would not do the same with a subordinate who would change the terms of his assignment, in the middle of his mission, because he has fallen in love?"

Cullen's face worked as he tried to deny her charge, gnashing his teeth in frustration when he could not. Finally he exhaled explosively and released her. "I won't work for you any longer. I won't work against Hawke."

Leliana rubbed her neck. "Then isn't it fortunate that we all seem to be working together now."

"That remains to be seen," Hawke said.

"Please, we can reconcile our discontents later," Solona urged. "We need to get to Fort Drakon or all of this is for nothing. Alistair is there."

"Yes, we must hurry, before it is too late," Leliana agreed and then led the way toward the stairs. Solona followed her, but Hawke hung back.

Wordlessly, she gazed at Cullen, wanting to move closer, take his hand, touch his face, but she was rooted to the spot. For all their unfiltered honesty and emotional bravado, a gulf remained between them with too many words still unsaid. His brow furrowed as he felt it, too. She searched for the words to help them move forward, but came up empty. As they each hesitated, staring wistfully at each other, the gulf only widened.

Leliana suddenly called their names from down the hall, startling Hawke. When she turned back, Cullen stepped to her side, bridging the distance between them.

He searched her face with cautious eyes. "There will be a time to make this right," he said. "Until then." He slowly took her hand in both of his and pressed a soft kiss to the center of her palm. He then closed her fingers carefully around it, like a promise, before moving away again.

She clenched her hand closed until she could feel her pulse beating fiercely through her fingers and could only nod. They were together. Maybe that was enough for now.

"Hawke. Cullen," Leliana hissed again. With a look of shared purpose, they ran together to catch up.

ooXXoo

They emerged from the corridor and stopped short next to Leliana at the entrance to the broad landing of the stairwell leading to the upper levels.

"—would never have harmed Ferelden. There's too much King in him for such small concerns," Solona was saying defiantly from where she stood in the center of the room. Her arms outstretched like she could shield them from the threat that had just emerged from the stairs.

Then all the air left Hawke's body at once and her heart pounded erratically in her ears. The room tilted chaotically and darkened around the edges until she felt like she was falling. Distantly, she heard herself moan a low, "No."

The man with silver eyes immediately looked past Solona and smiled. "Marian," he said warmly, like he was greeting an old friend, and stepped forward. Hawke was frozen in place, unable to look away, as the twisted landscape of her nightmares yawned wide to swallow the real world.

"I was just coming to see you," he said in his sing song voice, sounding genuinely pleased for once. "After all we have shared, I hope you wouldn't leave without at least saying goodbye," he said, extending a hand toward her as he approached. His eyes shone with a cold, unearthly light.

 _No._ She took an unsteady gasp of breath, in and out, still unable to take a deep breath. _No. No. No. No. No._

He steepled his fingers before his lips, giving her a clear view of the delicate tattoos she had tried so hard to forget. Now more than ever, the grace of the Chant verses contrasted with the remembered cruelty of those hands.

The smile on his lips quivered as he spoke. "What shall we discuss today, Marian?"

A sound escaped her that was not quite human, and once again she was back in that faraway cell, the eighth chime of the bell reverberating in the heavy air, and terror fluttering against her sanity. She took a step backwards and it was all she could do to stay on her feet and not curl into a small ball. "No," she said with a shaky sob.

Then Cullen was there at her back, with warm hands enveloping her shoulders and a soft voice in her ear. "He can't hurt you any longer, Grace. Don't let him." She took a breath, and then another, absorbing his warmth and his strength. Her chest loosened, and she stood a little straighter within the shelter of his hands.

At the same time, Solona stepped into the man's path, blocking those silver eyes from Hawke's line of sight. "That's quite close enough, Ten. We will be leaving here now. And you will not stop us."

The man—apparently called Ten, Hawke learned for the first time—sidestepped until he could see Hawke again, but Solona tracked his movement, blocking him again. Finally he focused his attention fully on the warden. "Solona," he said with a tiny shake of his head, his tone warm with paternalistic disapproval. "Now the world will never know what Alistair Theirin would have been willing to do to save the love of his life. Such a shame."

Solona's weight shifted slightly as she answered in a voice tight with anger. "Fortunately, the world doesn't need to know." Then without pausing, she murmured something under her breath and with a contorted hand gesture, shot a branching arc of lightning toward the silver eyed man. At the same time, Leliana had knocked an arrow and shot at the man

Ten also started chanting and the press of a breeze started out of nowhere, diverting the path of the arrow. Solona staggered backward, shaking her head and gasping. But then Cullen ran and dove at the man, tackling him to the ground.

They rolled across the stone floor, but Ten spryly scuttled out from underneath Cullen, who then had to dodge a sword swing from a templar Hawke had not noticed until now.

Hawke watched the fighting distantly, her narrowed field of view only permitting her to see the man with the silver eyes. But then Cullen hit the ground and suddenly all the sights and sounds rushed in at once. The silver-eyed man screamed commands at the four templars who had accompanied him, while he himself retreated to the edge of the room. Three of the templars now advanced on the unarmed Cullen with drawn swords and shields. The fourth templar had crumpled to the floor gasping, as one of Leliana's arrows had pierced his neck.

Back in the moment at last, Hawke leapt to action. She sprinted to the downed templar, who was spitting blood in his last gasps of breath, and pried the sword and shield from his surprised grasp. She then braced her arm with the shield and ran full force into the nearest templar, knocking him off his feet with a surprise attack from his flank. As he rolled to the floor, she followed with a swift thrust just above his breast plate.

A few steps away, Cullen was backing away from the other two knights who were trying to corner him. "Cullen!" she called, and as soon as he looked up, she threw him her sword.

He deftly caught it in mid-air, and with a fierce grin, swung the familiar weight of the templar sword in several practiced arcs that spoke of his considerable talent. The two templars hesitated, giving Hawke a chance to slide the shield across the floor to Cullen as well. He stopped it with his foot, but kept his eyes trained on the two knights, waiting for their next move.

As expected, the templars both moved in concert, attacking as one before Cullen could pick up the shield. He parried one strike and dodged the other, which unfortunately moved him further away from the shield. Hawke quickly knelt down and took the sword and belt dagger from the man she had killed.

When she regained her feet, she looked to see if Cullen needed her help. But, after a quick feint, he succeeded in putting both templars off balance and giving himself a moment to safely retrieve the shield. Now fully armed, Cullen took the offensive and paced toward the two templars, who looked increasingly anxious. Confident Cullen was holding his own, Hawke looked around for the silver-eyed man.

The man, Ten, stood with his back against the wall, trading mostly invisible ranged attacks with Solona and Leliana, who stood shoulder to shoulder a couple yards away. Hawke had always wondered if the silver-eyed man's strange powers had meant he was a mage. But he did everything without a staff. Solona was also fighting without a staff, but in her case, she was clearly at a disadvantage. She had paled and swayed a little on her feet, and Hawke began to wonder if this man might not also have some annulling capability, given his association with the templars.

Hawke moved closer, holding the two stolen blades low as she circled around the room toward him. The balance of the weapons was off, too light in her off hand, too heavy in the other, but she had made due with worse. Ten was concentrating on the other women, holding his hands before him as he muttered incantations and catches of the Chant. His eyes gleamed brightly and the strange tattoos on his hands also glowed. Just as he released some kind of wave of force that drove Solona and Leliana to their knees, Hawke sprang.

With a low growl, she slashed at the man with both blades, catching his leg with one as he dodged away at the last minute. Ten hissed in pain and stumbled backwards before raising a desperate hand in her direction. His eyes flashed silver and there was a shimmer in the air before him. She took a step closer and found that her limbs had slowed. She inched closer but something was holding her back. She gritted her teeth and pushed harder, but could barely set down one more foot.

Ten kept his hand up, forehead lined with concentration, but his lips curled into a smile. "Marian," he purred. "Let us not fight. Tell me you don't feel our connection."

His eyes flashed again, and like all those years ago, she felt his powers worm inside her mind and eat away at her will power, while sifting through her thoughts for her deepest secrets. If she could have moved, she would have cowered from the reminder of so much pain and the promise of so much more to come.

"Tell me. Tell me how I am in your thoughts daily. How, even when we're apart, you cannot close your eyes for dreaming of me." The command burned through her defenses, loosening her tongue and drowning her power to fight as it forced her to tell him the horrible truth. That even with his power over her broken, he had remained present in her thoughts and fears, as nightmare after nightmare had proven. She wanted to scream but instead fought to open her lips to answer, and agree.

"Tell me you won't have lost something once I am gone." His words reverberating with power, but also a twisted longing to subjugate her will and take it for his own. Her lips opened slowly, about to submit and admit that he was right, about everything, when suddenly he shuddered as the black fletching of an arrow blossomed from his shoulder.

In that instant, as Ten's body jerked from the blow, his power wavered. It was just for a second, but it was enough. Hawke put on a burst of speed, throwing herself forward, and buried both blades in the man's chest with a feral cry.

He looked down at the blades, mouth open in surprise, before looking at Hawke. "Marian," he breathed as he started to sag down the wall at his back, and the silver light in his eyes dimmed.

She pulled out her blades and leaned in close to look into his eyes without fear at last. "Yes, I will have lost something. I will lose the need to constantly look over my shoulder, wondering if you are out there," she said in a low, fierce voice before burying her dagger in his throat and giving it a jagged twist.

His eyes widened again before he crumpled to the ground. She stood over him, breathing heavily, and a weight was lifted from her shoulders. She took a deep, shuddering breath and felt like she was breathing free for the first time in years.

"Nicely done." Leliana walked up from behind her and retrieved her arrow, wiping it on the man's black tunic before knocking it in her bow.

"Thank you," Hawke said. "I . . . I couldn't have done it without you."

Leliana gave her tight smile. "Yes, you could have. But I will say you're welcome, even so." Her eyes danced for a moment before she turned away to scan the room for more threats, bow half-drawn.

Hawke did the same but Cullen was already cleaning his blade. Both remaining templars lay dead at his feet, one still encased in ice. Solona joined them a moment later, shaking one of her hands and blowing on her bared fingers as if they had been burned.

"Are you okay?" Hawke asked Solona.

"Of course. I look forward to getting my staff back, though," she said with a rueful smile.

Cullen approached Hawke with eyes were full of concern, but all he said was, "Grace?"

She nodded. "It's over."

He exhaled in relief. "Thank the Maker." He reached out, but hesitated before bridging the divide between then a second time to cup her face in his hand. He ghosted the pad of his thumb across her cheek. "How are you?" he asked seriously.

She smiled wanly. "Better."

He searched her face for a moment. Apparently satisfied with what he saw there, he nodded and quickly stepped back again.

Leliana slung her bow across her back. "Now is our chance. Let us hope the noise did not alert anyone else."

Hawke shifted her grip on the two borrowed blades in her hand. "Once we get to the upper levels of the Chantry, we should be able to blend in with the other parishioners."

"We can hope," Leliana said, eyeing the bared blades in both Hawke's and Cullen's hands.

Hawke shrugged. "I can pass for one of the faithful when need be," she said, glancing at Cullen with a small smile.

His eyes glowed down at her with suppressed mirth. "We've avoided being struck by lightning so far."

She snorted. "The day is still young," she murmured, before looking at Leliana with a nod. "Lead the way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, the obviously titled **Chapter 29: Return to Fort Drakon**. :)


	29. Return to Fort Drakon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Hawke and friends race against time to salvage what's left of the peace talks.

_Fort Drakon_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

When they arrived at Fort Drakon, Cullen's eyes were drawn not to the massive tower rising up toward the clouds, but to the more sobering sight of column upon column of templars in formation on the landing before the fort. During their escape from the Chantry, they had encountered resistance, but not enough to explain all the templars Cullen and Solona had seen on the march to Denerim. Now he understood why, because they were here. Cullen did a quick count and deduced that, given the size of the company outside, there were a number of units missing.

He shared his conclusions with Hawke, Leliana and Solona as they hid behind the arched entry into the courtyard before the gatehouse. "The rest must be inside already," he said.

Hawke nodded. "There were already a number of templars heading in when I was taken away. Likely more now. All armed, of course, and in possession of all the confiscated weapons."

"Including the mages' staves," Solona added. "They're going to need those in order to have any chance."

"If there are any mages left," Leliana said.

"We need to find a way past the templars and into the tower," Cullen said with a worried frown. He looked at Hawke. "If they see you, we're done."

Hawke turned to Solona. "You have infiltrated Fort Drakon before. How did you do it last time?"

Solona laughed and shared a look with Leliana. "The first time, I was escorted in. To a cell. Leliana had to trick her way in to rescue me."

Leliana smiled ruefully at the reminder. "And I'm afraid my acting skills are a trifle rusty these days."

"The second time," Solona said, her smile slipping away, "we fought our way in, through the darkspawn that had overrun it. There is no easy way."

A grim silence fell over the group, only to be broken a moment later when a few isolated shouts sounded through the templar ranks. Cullen peered around the archway to see the templar formation square up in anticipation of something coming up the path from the city below. The captain and his lieutenants stepped forward as the reason finally came into view.

Captain Deacon topped the rise with a full regiment of the palace guard marching at his back. He stopped in front of the templar captain, and from this distance, Cullen could only hear the anger in their raised voices. At the same time, a seemingly endless stream of gold-plated guards filed onto the landing before the fort and around the edge of the courtyard. Cullen found himself automatically frowning in disapproval when a ripple of movement ran through the templar lines from concerned feet fidgeting out of formation. Once upon a time, he would have had harsh words for those soldiers. Today, he was grateful they all seemed distracted by the showdown between Deacon and their captain.

"This is our chance," said Hawke, already on the move around the edge of the courtyard, her blades held ready.

Cullen and the others followed, slipping through the shadows of the statuary and ornate arches around the courtyard until they were close enough to make a break for the series of ramps leading up to the entrance. They heard the sounds of a scuffle as they drew near, and once they cleared the final archway, witnessed Varric and Fenris dragging the inert bodies of two templar guards into the shadows behind a pillar.

"Hawke!" Merrill said, grinning and waving like she had encountered them in the market and not infiltrating an imposing fort.

"Merrill!" Hawke rushed over. "What are you doing here?"

"We came to ask you that same question," Merrill replied. "We've been so worried since Deacon returned to the palace without you."

"Deacon sent you?" Hawke asked.

"Yeah," Varric said as he joined them. "Deacon was pretty convinced something was wrong when you told him to leave the fort. But you still wouldn't believe what it took to convince him to disobey your direct order and march back here." He chuckled, shaking his head.

Hawke squeezed Varric's shoulder, and looked at each of her friends in turn. "Thank you," she said simply, but Cullen could hear the catch in her voice.

"Don't thank us until you hear what we had to promise him," Varric replied, his voice sounding more gruff than usual.

"It seems you have been busy, Hawke," Fenris said. His elven eyes gleamed brightly in the partial darkness as he looked curiously at Cullen and the others. "What happened?"

Cullen clamped his mouth shut on any answer he might give to that question. In all the chaos, there had been no opportunity to explain his return to Hawke, and she had not asked. All the contrite excuses he had practiced in his head felt even less adequate now that he had directly played into the Lord Seeker's hands and put everything—everyone—in jeopardy. Whatever happened now, whatever Hawke might say, Anders had been right all along, and that was a burden that Cullen would have to bear.

"The short version," Hawke said in a brisk tone, "is that the Lord Seeker intends to wipe out the mage underground and tried to get us all out of the way. We escaped and now need to get to the chapel before he can succeed. We may already be too late." She waved a hand at each of Leliana and Solona. "Sister Nightingale, whom you know. Solona Amell."

Merrill's eyes widened at the introduction, while Varric merely looked thoughtful and Fenris grunted.

"Do you know if Alistair is still within?" Solona asked.

"He hasn't come back to the palace," Varric said. "That was the one thing that finally convinced Deacon to come here and provide us with some backup."

"I wonder if the Lord Seeker is brave enough to harm the King of Ferelden," Leliana mused, pursing her lips.

"No man is brave enough for that," Solona said in a flat voice, yanking open the door and passing into the gatehouse.

Cullen paused before following, glancing uneasily back out at the soldiers in the courtyard. All attention remained focused on the confrontation with Deacon, which was heated but not yet violent. The presence of the palace guard at least made it less likely that a whole templar company would flank them. Or block their escape, were they actually to make it out alive.

ooXXoo

The interior of the fort was deathly quiet. Far too quiet for Hawke's taste. Only a handful of knights guarded the one set of interior doors that led deeper into the keep, suggesting the rest must be in the levels above. Their band crept forward quietly through the large stone hall and successfully avoided any telltale echoes that might alert the soldiers.

When they were close enough, Hawke abandoned stealth and rushed toward them. The templar started in surprise. "Champion!" one of them exclaimed. "Y-you're not supposed to be here."

Hawke lunged forward and the man who had spoken froze as she held her sword to his throat. "I can't very well abandon my post, now. Where is the Lord Seeker?"

The templar went silent and the other three men hovered in indecision, while her friends moved up to circle the templars. Hawke moved her sword closer until a line of red welled up on the man's neck. "Where is he?" she demanded through gritted teeth.

"A-above. He's above, in the chapel on the roof with the others," the templar said, swallowing and causing another red line on his neck as he shifted against Hawke's rocksteady blade.

"How many templars are up there?" she asked.

"Enough," the man replied.

Hawke looked at Cullen and nodded sharply. Then, in unison, she used the pommel of her sword to knock out the man she had threatened, while Cullen did the same for the man closest to him. Fenris and Leliana followed with the remaining two.

"Hawke, where did you stow the weapons? We need to gather the mages' staves if we can," said Solona.

"Through here." Hawke led her to the alcove where Deacon had been storing everything he had collected.

Hawke breathed a sigh of relief when she found her own matched blades, each long as her forearm and slightly curved, and slid them home into the sheaths on her back.

Beside her Solona had selected one of the mages' staves and gave it an experimental spin in her hand. "This will do," Solona murmured before grabbing as many other staves as she could reasonably hold. The others followed suit, with Hawke taking a moment to find Anders's staff and sling it and another across her back.

Hawke returned to the main hall and smiled to see that Cullen was strapping on a breastplate he must have taken from one of the unconscious templars. She walked up behind him and wordlessly started to tighten one of the buckles at his shoulder. He glanced sidelong at her, his expression guarded.

She stepped back. "It suits you," she said.

He answered with a tight smile that must have pulled uncomfortably at the split in his upper lip, which started to bleed again. Without thinking, she reached out to look at it more closely. "Does it hurt?"

He stilled as she held his face and watched her warily. "A little."

"You should get someone to heal it before it leaves a scar." She accidentally looked him in the eye and was caught, her pulse pounding in her ears as they gazed at each other. The moment ended when one of the templars at their feet groaned.

The templar was quickly silenced by an elbow strike from Solona, who was rifling around in the kit on the man's belt. Feeling curious eyes on her, Solona glanced up at Hawke and Cullen. "Some of these templars traveled a distance to Denerim," she said, moving on to the next templar's kit. "Which means they must have brought with them . . . Aha!" she said triumphantly, holding up her prize.

In her hand, two small vials of lyrium glowed softly, casting the sudden pallor in Cullen's face a sickly blue. He stiffened and his hand trembled as Hawke took it in hers. Solona did not seem to notice and instead stowed the vials away in the pouch at her waist before moving onto the next templar.

Hawke took Cullen's shoulder and turned him toward her and away from the lyrium. "Cullen?"

He swallowed and nodded jerkily. "I'm all right." She squeezed his hand before letting go.

"We should—" Hawke said just as a loud boom reverberated through the building and the walls shook slightly.

"Creators! What is happening up there?" Merrill said.

"We need to move!" Solona said, jumping to her feet and advancing into the tower. Everyone else followed, concern quickening their steps.

ooXXoo

They did not encounter any more soldiers as they moved through each level of the tower, supporting their assumption that everyone was concentrated on the chapel on the roof. The eerie silence was finally broken by a distant murmur that eventually turned into the clash of arms and the crackle of magic. The sounds were faint but growing as they ascended toward the roof. Every time there was a particularly loud crash or shout, Solona would speed up a little, practically crawling out of her skin in her need to reach Alistair.

Next to the burning flame of Solona's obvious attachment to Alistair, Hawke's flicker of jealousy on seeing her with Cullen faded to pettiness. It was too easy to indulge in envy of the remarkable woman who had once defeated a fallen god as easily as she commanded the affections of both the King of Ferelden and Knight-Captain of Kirkwall. But whatever Cullen might still feel for the hero, it was clear where Solona's broken heart still lay. Belatedly, Hawke wondered at her own cold heart that she was not nearly as upset about Anders.

A loud shout just above them in the stairwell interrupted the mawkish turn of Hawke's thoughts, and they had arrived at the top.

The stair broadened and brightened with the mid-day sun. It was hard to believe, after everything that had happened, that it was still so early in the day. Reflected glints of sunlight from templar armor temporarily blinded Hawke as she emerged onto the roof of the tower, panting a bit from the climb.

In one glance, she deduced the recent turn of events. The fighting already had spilled out from the small, picturesque chapel built to commemorate the end of the Fifth Blight. A serene stained glass portrayal of Solona in warden blue elegantly thrust a sword upwards into the heart of a stylized representation of the Archdemon, while a chaotic civil war raged in an open plaza before it. Exhausted mages and their few remaining men at arms dodged behind ornate planters and statues while fending off well-armed templars encased in metal in an alarmingly one-sided battle.

Hawke was surprised they had lasted this long, but in the middle of the blue-tiled plaza was a giant, circular scorch mark with rows upon rows of fallen knights centered on the blast point. The explosion they had heard below must have been one mage's last ditch attempt to take as many templars with her as she could. Or he could. There was not enough left of the mage to be able to tell. The blast must have evened the odds for a time, but the templars were gaining ground again.

There was no sign of the King or anyone on the negotiating teams from either side, suggesting that perhaps they were still inside the chapel. "Help the mages!" she called to her friends. "I'm going to find the Lord Seeker!"

At the same time, Solona stepped forward, eyes darkening as she muttered arcane spells to herself and raised her hands. One of the borrowed staves in her hands sparked and then a swirling maelstrom coalesced in the air above the templars.

"Care to dance?" she muttered, laughing wildly into the wind that swept through her hair. Dark clouds formed and lightning arced between them before hurtling to ground in a discordant waltz of death among the scattering templars. Two of the soldiers immediately fell to the ground smoking and twitching as lightning strikes scorched through their metal armor.

The rest of the templars scrambled to escape the storm, but Fenris was waiting for them with Varric and Leliana at his back, picking off the unwary from a distance. Merrill skirted the storm as best she could with her arms loaded with several additional staves and sprinted toward a small group of mages huddling behind a nearby half-wall.

While her friends worked to turn the tide of the battle, Hawke ran toward the Warden's chapel and sensed Cullen on her heels. She ducked inside the doorway beneath the giant window depicting Solona and into an empty foyer. Hawke quietly picked her way across rainbow-splashed flagstones, her shadow interrupting the riot of color streaming from the stained glass.

She listened, sifting through the cacophony from outside to finally pick up a strident yell that could only be Fiona. Hawke sped up, slipping through a short hallway and into the main chapel, where she crouched down behind a massive triptych featuring the breach of the Golden City. She glanced backwards at Cullen, who stayed hidden behind the entryway. He gave her a sharp nod and she crept forward into the long chapel.

To accommodate the peace talks, Alistair's people had removed the first few rows of pews and replaced them with a long table where the negotiation would take place. Hawke had spent hours hearing about the meticulous place settings and diplomatic seating arrangements around that table that were now in a shambles. The table had been tipped over along with most of the chairs, and she could just see a figure laying prone behind the table in a growing pool of blood. A tall statue of Andraste against one wall had been destroyed and now sat in a number of crumbling pieces behind a line of blood-splashed templars who stood at attention, eyes focused on the showdown at the front of the chapel.

Marchand paced before the raised dais at the front of the room, which was backed by a priceless altarpiece that had depicted Solona's battle with the Archdemon and now had a long diagonal slash through the canvas. At the foot of the altarpiece, the mage leaders were on their knees. Fiona and Rhys watched Marchand in murderous silence. An ashen-faced Evangeline was sitting with a hand pressed to her arm, staunching a rather significant flow of blood that leaked out between her fingers.

Hawke let out an almost audible sigh of relief when she finally caught sight of Anders. Smudged with blood, but otherwise alive, he was also on his knees a distance from the others with a grimy blindfold tied over his eyes. Blue runes glowed on the manacles restraining his hands while a loose cage of templars stood watch over him.

Somewhat surprisingly, Germaine and Trentwatch stood together with Alistair and Teagan beside the mage leaders. Alistair glowered with his one eye that was not swollen and blackened, and Teagan stood just a step in front of the King as if he could protect him from Marchand. The Lord Seeker, in turn, seemed to be lecturing them.

Hawke strained her ears to hear. "—many times have you urged the Order to focus on the mage threat, and not just the Terrorist of Kirkwall?" Marchand was saying. "Here, I deliver them both, and you quail at what must be done!"

"But not in this way," Germaine responded grimly. "This has no honor. Attacking unarmed men, under the white banner, is shameful. I will not be a party to it."

Marchand shook his head. "I should have expected such hypocrisy from you, Germaine. Once again, it is left to me to do what you will not. You might as well have remained Justinia's guard dog along with Ser Beatrice. But, rest assured, justice will be done."

"This is not justice. There has been no due process. No trial."

Marchand snorted. "There is no need for a trial. We all heard them during the proceedings. They freely acknowledge their acts of terrorism throughout several countries. Countries with representatives here." He waved a hand at the ambassadors who cowered in a corner behind Alistair.

"There will be severe consequences if you proceed in this, Marchand," Alistair said, his nostrils flaring in anger. "You have no right—"

"I have the only right! The Templar Order and the Seekers of Truth have jurisdiction over the mage threat by divine right. And I answer to the Maker alone. Not to the Chantry. Certainly not to the dog king of Ferelden and his lackies."

A gasp came from the huddle of ambassadors at Marchand's insults, but Hawke could not identify the source.

"Enough stalling. If you will not help, then you will watch," Marchand said, jerking his hand at the nearest three templars, who started toward Fiona, Rhys and Evangeline. "For acts of terrorism and sedition against the kingdoms of Thedas and in the name of the Maker and his bride, Holy Andraste, Fiona, Rhys, and Evangeline, I sentence you to immediate death." He then turned toward Anders with a chilling smile. "The Terrorist of Kirkwall, however, will be coming with us for his . . . rehabilitation."

"I demand a stop to this at once," Alistair said in a ringing voice, stepping around Teagan. "You cannot unilaterally—"

"Such strident barking," Marchand interrupted, chuckling. He motioned at the advancing soldiers. "Proceed."

Hawke drew her blades and got ready to move in. The first templar neared Fiona, who glared up at the man defiantly. But then, Germaine stepped in front of her, blocking the man's way.

"I will not allow this," Germaine said without heat to the approaching templar.

The soldier hesitated and then glanced over at the Lord Seeker for direction. Marchand's expression burned with malice as he and Germaine locked gazes. The moment stretched as neither man flinched nor stood down. Finally, Marchand said, "So be it."

He turned to the templar and with eyes glittering, said, "Finish him."

The templar's eyes widened behind his helmet and he looked back at Germaine, who held his head high. The templar hesitated again, but Marchand hissed, "Finish him!"

Just as Hawke realized it really was going to happen, the templar instantly struck Germaine through the heart. A killing blow. "No!" Hawke shouted, jumping to her feet and sprinting toward the fallen knight.

Marchand spun around in surprise. "Hawke! Stop her!" he snarled at his men.

Behind him, Fiona took advantage of the distraction and conjured a small inferno between her hands that she shot at her templar executioner, throwing him backwards. She then scrambled to her feet along with Rhys and Evangeline, while the other templars also jumped to action after a stunned moment. Snatches of various incantations tumbled throughout the chapel as the mage-templar battle lines were drawn, but before anyone could finish, the templars were all bowled to the ground by an invisible burst of force from behind them. Cullen then ran in before they could recover from his holy smite and engaged the templar closest to him who was still struggling to her feet.

Hawke stepped up on top of the nearest pew and skipped across the top of those remaining between her and the dais. She skirted the toppled negotiation table and came up behind the templars who were bearing down on the mages. Fiona was pale and her powers were close to exhaustion as the wall of fire she had tried to conjure flickered to nothing. Rhys was kneeling next to Evangeline and his healing magic glowed green around the hands he pressed to her arm. As three templars closed in on the mages, Alistair and Ser Trentwatch, the last standing Knight Divine, stepped into their path, bracing themselves despite their lack of weapons. But then Hawke had reached them, handily hamstringing one of the templars that had been foolish enough to ignore his flank. The other two templars spun around just in time to avoid the same fate.

They each came at Hawke with determination, testing her with shallow thrusts of their swords and deflecting many of her return strikes with their shields. Then suddenly one of them gasped in pain and dropped to his knees, and behind him, a now-armed Alistair kicked the newly downed templar's sword over to Trentwatch. The remaining templar stepped back nervously as the odds shifted out of his favor, allowing Hawke to make quick work of him.

"Nice of you to join us, Hawke," Alistair said, his smile pulling at his swollen black eye.

"I wouldn't have missed it!" She grinned and then took one of the mage staves from her shoulder and slid it across the floor toward Fiona and Rhys, who nodded their thanks. Rhys scooped it up and, with the staff to focus his connection to the Fade, he could now fire precise bolts of pure energy at any nearby assailant, knocking down the few templars who had drawn close.

At the back of the room, Hawke could see that Cullen was more than holding his own against the low-ranked templars he faced. So she ran to find Anders, only to stop dead in her tracks.

The Lord Seeker was waiting for her, and in his hand, the broadsword she had witnessed him relinquish to Deacon. Without apparent effort, Marchand held the giant sword to the neck of Anders, who remained blindfolded and bound on his knees. "You can stop right there, Champion."

Hawke was breathing heavily, but complied. "Let him go."

"You think you can escape the consequences of your choices, Champion?" Marchand sneered. "By choosing to thwart me, you have chosen for everyone here to die. Starting with the Terrorist of Kirkwall. Unless you end this charade of a rebellion now."

She took a cautious step forward, but Marchand twitched his blade closer to drawing blood. "That's close enough," he said.

In a show of good faith, she slid her blades into their sheaths on her back and slowly slipped Anders's staff off her shoulder and onto the floor. "You don't have to do this," Hawke said, showing him her empty hands.

He chuckled. "Oh, but I do. Don't you see? No matter what happens here today, Anders will pay for what happened in Kirkwall. Have no doubt about that. The only question is _how_. Comply with my demands, and you may delay his punishment. And make it quick. Not painless, certainly, but not . . . lingering as I had planned."

"Under the neutrality of the peace talks, Anders is protected—"

"There is no protection from what he has done! Here or anywhere in the Maker's sight. Like the magisters of old, Anders has brought sin to Heaven and doom upon all the world with his foul act of terrorism in the Maker's own house. Only with his death will my dear Elthina's soul rest easy at the Maker's hand. Only then will the faithful of Kirkwall be able to make peace with the violation Anders wrought upon our city."

"He is making amends. We all are. Please. It doesn't have to happen like this."

Marchand gave her a pitying look. "And yet it does. Another choice, Hawke. Will he die now? In agony and while you watch? You've spent so many years, experienced so much pain, protecting this man. After all you've suffered and sacrificed, can you give in at last? For this?" he asked, his voice incredulous. "For these mages and their pointless cause? A cause which you admit is no longer even your own? Or will you stand down, and save him one last time."

"Let him go," she said, inching forward again.

"No, it is you who should let him go, Hawke." He shook his head. "It's pathetic how you let your personal attachments control your life."

"Damn you," Hawke said from between gritted teeth. "Always the coward's way, letting others do your dirty work, twisting and manipulating people from a distance. Fight your own battles for once, Marchand!"

The Seeker's narrowed his eyes in anger and moved his sword against Anders's neck. Unable to see, Anders drew a surprised intake of breath and had to rear his head back as the blade drew a small dribble of his blood. Hawke took a panicked step forward and Marchand smiled, knowing he still had the upper hand. "Choose!"

"Hawke, don't do it," Anders said quickly. "I'm dead anyway. Let it be tonight. You can still make things right. For both of us."

Marchand gripped a handful of Anders's hair and held him steady against the edge of his sword. "Shut up!" he snarled at Anders, before turning hate-filled eyes back to Hawke. "Your answer, Champion! Choose his time to die!"

Hawke slowed her breathing, trying to focus and give herself more time to think. The din of battle fell away and all she could hear was her own intake of breath and her heart inexorably counting out the passage of seconds. Anders's head was tilted at an awkward angle, and though his eyes were still covered, they were turned heavenward like so many Chantry paintings of its martyrs, their eyes trained on their divine reward.

Hawke took one more long, stuttered breath, wishing she could see his eyes, hoping she could see some truth there of what she should do. Would Anders finally find peace in the ultimate penance of martyrdom? Would he go to the Maker's right hand, or was more judgment in store? Or would he just be so much worm fodder, with no one to care about his noble causes and terrible deeds?

She looked to her left and noticed that Cullen had joined them. He had lost his shield and he was splashed with blood, but none of it seemed to be his given the ease with which he stood, watching her solemnly. He did not say anything, but finally he smiled, and she knew that whatever she decided, he supported her. As he always did.

_Don't lose faith, Grace._

She took another deep, ragged breath, but this time the sound in the room returned to normal. The clang of arms played a counterpoint to explosions of magic echoing both within and without the chapel. She turned back to Marchand and in a clear voice, gave him her answer.

"No."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our climax ramps up! The rest of the story will go up this weekend, with the next chapter on Saturday: **Chapter 30: The Choice is Made**. Thanks for reading! xoxo


	30. The Choice is Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The climax continues as Cullen fights his way to Hawke's side.

_Fort Drakon_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

Cullen had had a moment's uncertainty on donning the templar arms again, expecting an imposter's guilt to wrack his conscience. Yet, as he followed Hawke into battle in the Warden's Chapel, sword of mercy on his chest, templar sword in hand, and used his skills and abilities in service to mages who needed his protection, he felt a quiet righteousness of purpose. He dipped into the elusive traces of lyrium remaining in his blood and his power answered with a vengeance, almost as if Andraste herself answered his call. Templars stumbled to the ground before him, stunned as much from surprise as from the tidal wave of their own arcane might turned back upon them. The irony was not lost on Cullen that he had finally come back into his own while fighting against the very templars he had once called brothers.

A sword clattered against Cullen's shield at the same time as he shoved backwards, catching his assailant at just the right moment to unbalance the rookie templar and force him to stumble backward. In another life, Cullen would have reprimanded the man for leaving himself open. But, today, with the fate of the mage-templar war on the line, Cullen happily exploited the mistake and disarmed the man using a simple flick of his sword. The templar's mouth dropped open in dismay, fear of death flickering across his face, before Cullen took pity and knocked the man senseless with a swift blow of his shield.

Cullen worked his way across the chapel toward the dais, starting to rush when he saw the unarmed King Alistair take the fallen Germaine's place between the mages and the advancing templars. Cullen dodged a slash at his head, performing a few swift feints and blocks, and then the next templar fell. He moved on and saw with relief that Hawke had finally reached the King and the last Knight Divine, who were both now armed.

Cullen turned instead toward the chapel entrance where a new wave of templars were streaming in. He worried for a brief minute how these soldiers had escaped Solona and the others outside and then he was lost to the fury of battle as they engaged. The templars approached him in a standard formation, too standard they soon found out, as he easily exploited the formation's weakness against a single combatant. He drove a wedge between them, splitting their ranks, and then the close quarters meant they were ducking each other's blows that were meant for Cullen.

He incapacitated those he could, but soon many had fallen to mortal wounds. Cullen regretted the necessity, and yet did not let regret slow him down.

"Cullen!" someone shouted above the din of battle. Cullen spun around and saw Reynolds, Kinloch Hold's knight-captain come through the door, his sword dripping red.

Cullen paused as did the templars facing him. The two men eyed their captain expectantly.

"What are you doing here?" Reynolds asked, puzzlement clear on face. "Did the Lord Seeker call you, too?"

It took Cullen a moment to realize what the breastplate he wore must suggest. "No. No, I'm afraid . . ." He sighed. "I'm afraid I'm here to stop the Lord Seeker."

"What? Why?"

"Surely you must know. The Lord Seeker has violated the neutrality of the peace talks. You're attacking unarmed people protected under the white flag, for Andraste's sake!"

"Unarmed?" he said, his voice going up in incredulity. "They're mages. Cullen, this is what we do."

Cullen shook his head wearily. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. Templars protect. They don't kill without mercy or regard for circumstance."

"The circumstance is that these mages have terrorized Ferelden and elsewhere with their mage rebellion."

"And the farmer you _purged_ in Gwaren? Was he terrorizing Ferelden, too?"

"Wha . . ." Reynolds was literally speechless. "You . . . Cullen, templars counter the mage threat. We are the balance. The light in the shadow. This is our duty."

"But not to kill indiscriminately. This is wrong."

"This is hardly indiscriminate! We're following orders."

"Then your orders are wrong."

"We counter the mage threat," Reynolds said doggedly, his brow furrowing like he was explaining something very basic. Or perhaps he simply could not accept another interpretation of his actions. "I will do my duty."

"But—" Cullen started.

"I will do my duty, Cullen," Reynolds insisted. "To the end."

_Not a templar._

The familiar words snaked through Cullen's mind but no longer caused a corresponding ache in his heart. This was not the Order he had served, and this realization gave him new strength. Finally, he could put his time as a templar where it belonged: in his past, alongside the other memories of what had shaped him, good and bad.

"Then I will have to stop you," Cullen said in a quiet, even voice.

Reynolds nodded slowly. "Very well, old friend. You can try."

Cullen saluted the knight-captain with his sword. "To the end, then."

The other two templars, who had waited uncertainly during the interchange, resumed their attack. Cullen easily fended them off while Reynolds circled him. Wanting to keep focused on the greater threat in Reynolds, Cullen abandoned finesse, lashing out with a brutal kick at one templar's unarmored knee, while at the same time aiming a crushing elbow at the other's unhelmeted nose followed by a knee to the face as the man went down. Both soldiers immediately crumpled, allowing Cullen to turn and track Reynolds just as the man lunged.

Cullen was taller and had always had the longer reach, while Reynolds was broader and heavier, often relying on brute strength alone. As such, Reynolds had favored the clumsier mace over a sword, its power and bluntness a reflection of Reynolds's black and white approach of life. Wasting no time, Reynolds landed a blow of devastating power that dented Cullen's borrowed shield. As Cullen resettled the shield on his arm, Reynolds struck again, beating him backwards toward the wall with its shattered row of Andrastian statuary. Cullen kept on eye on the obstacles at his feet, slipping once on the silky marble rubble. Reynolds was relentless, seeking any opening with single-minded force and smiling each time Cullen gave way.

Once Cullen found his footing, however, they fell into the ages-old patterns of traditional templar forms, almost like they were back in training together, before their vows, before Uldred, before Kirkwall. For a time, they merely traded unsophisticated strikes and counterstrikes, relearning each other's timing and weaknesses while letting their shields bear the initial brunt of the encounter until they were battered and dented almost to uselessness. With the wall protecting his back and few choices for maneuvering, Cullen could bide his time, waiting for the opportunity to capitalize on Reynolds's usual hot headedness. But the captain seemed to have matured with age, and approached their contest more conservatively than Cullen would have expected.

Still attempting to wear Cullen down, Reynolds wound up his weighted mace and finally struck a bone-tingling blow that collapsed one edge of Cullen's weakened shield. The warped metal bit deeply into his arm just under his pauldron and, from the pain, must have cut through his undertunic to draw blood. Reynolds smirked and swung the mace around again.

Cullen gritted his teeth against the pain and the red haze of instinct took over. Instinct forged not in a templar training yard, but over years in the lawless underbelly of Kirkwall's streets. Cullen sprang forward with split-second timing and stepped into the blow. He scraped his shield up along Reynolds's descending arm, effectively deflecting the man's power, while using his own momentum to jab the knife-like forward edge of the mangled shield up into the man's unprotected neck.

Still locked together, Reynolds looked at Cullen through the shower of blood with eyes widened in disbelief.

"I'm sorry, old friend," Cullen murmured, and then, with a horrible gurgle of a last breath, Reynolds crumpled to the ground. Cullen bowed his head, wondering futilely if a mage could repair the damage he had just cause, when suddenly someone shouted from behind him, "Choose!"

Cullen spun and caught sight of the encounter on the other side of the room: Hawke faced off with Marchand, who held his sword to the neck of a bound and blindfolded Anders. "Your answer, Champion!" Marchand spat. "Choose his time to die!"

Cullen ran closer, uncertain how to help as he fumbled to release the now useless and bloodied shield from his arm. Hawke's face was wracked with indecision as the Lord Seeker laid yet another life and death ultimatum before her. Angered that she should be pushed to such lengths yet again for the people she loved, Cullen could only try to show her silently that he was with her, whatever she chose.

Their eyes met and he smiled his encouragement and love. She let out a breath and it was like her whole body relaxed but also straightened with resolve. She looked back at Marchand, her head held high, and simply said, "No."

Marchand narrowed his eyes at Hawke's response. " _No_ is not a choice!" he said.

"It is," Hawke cried. "I _choose_ to no longer play your games. I will _not_ choose who lives and who dies. Not again. This ends now. These talks are bigger than Anders. Or me. Or you. They are the way forward for Thedas. I won't let you ruin our chance for peace."

"You'll let Anders's life hang in the balance?" Marchand said, redoubling his grip on his sword, but not following through just yet.

Hawke stalked forward in a crouch, her eyes narrowing to a cat-like gleam, which Cullen recognized as Hawke at her most dangerous. "This is finished, Marchand."

"And so it is!" But before Marchand could slit Anders's throat, a bolt of lightning struck the Lord Seeker. The energy quickly dissipated given his natural resistance to magic, but it was enough for him to lose his grip on Anders, who immediately threw himself backwards and out of the man's grasp.

"You!" Marchand hissed across the room, where Solona was standing in the doorway, her borrowed staff held in two hands.

"Yes, your sins have come back to haunt you, Seeker. Time to die!" Solona said, smiling grimly as she strode forward into the chapel like a vengeful goddess, her loosened red hair now streaming behind her.

_Fire is her water._

Cullen watched, transfixed, as Solona stopped beside Hawke, and without a word passing between them, the cousins faced down Marchand together.

Marchand's eyes darted between the two of them, becoming calculating. The silence drew out until finally, Marchand smiled.

A moment later, more templars started in through the entrance of the chapel. "Kill them all!" he shouted to the newcomers.

Solona and Hawke exchanged a look, and then Hawke was pacing toward Marchand, blades held lightly and low, like she was hunting prey. Solona turned to face the templars, but on noticing Cullen, first rushed to his side.

"Here! Free Anders," she said, pressing something cold and hard into his free hand before moving toward the new threat, a spell already tumbling from her lips.

Cullen looked down at his hand and felt his stomach drop. The blue glow of lyrium winked back at him enticingly, twinkling as the two vials shook with his now trembling hand. The low, everpresent hum that had played a distant harmony to the melody of his life suddenly burst again into delirious song. The brightness of the blue glow lanced painfully into his eyes and he winced, like a man exposed to the sun for the first time in weeks. Months. Years. It called to him and the empty reserves of lyrium in his blood called back, yearning to be full and powerful once more.

He lifted his hand up before his face to see the vials more closely. The liquid inside shimmered gleefully and the song intensified. All it would take was a quick pop of the cork, and he could finally slake his thirst. He shuddered, imagining how the philter would feel sliding down his throat, the metallic chill quenching as it burned.

It would be so easy.

"Don't mind if I do!"

The words cut through the song as two hands, bound together in manacles, abruptly snatched both lyrium vials. Cullen opened his mouth in involuntary protest and rounded on the thief.

Discarded blindfold hanging around his neck, Anders winked at Cullen before popping the cork off one vial and downing it in one swallow. He closed his eyes and shuddered for a moment before tucking the other vial away. Once the second vial had disappeared from sight and sound, the song ended and Cullen's mind immediately cleared.

"You're welcome. Now, help a mage out?" Anders had the audacity to ask with a cheeky smile, holding out his bound hands.

Cullen scowled to hide his appreciation for the rescue and obliged, murmuring the key to unlocking the magic-suppressing runes on the manacles. As soon as the blue glow in the runes died, the manacles burst apart as force energy erupted from the mage's hands. Anders flexed his shoulders and exhaled in relief, whether from the release of cramped muscles or the flood of lyrium through his body, Cullen could not be sure. His own senses tingled at his proximity to the raw magic, like the oversensitivity of a new scar, and he could almost see it coursing through Anders.

Anders winked at him again and then scooped up his abandoned staff from the floor. "Time to go. Templars to kill," Anders said with a grin before dashing off to engage the latest wave of templars entering the chapel. Cullen only shook his head and followed, smiling ruefully.

ooXXoo

Hawke felt her face pull into a fierce grin as she circled the Lord Seeker, forcing him to spin in place in order to keep her in view. Finally, with a snarl, he was on her with a brutal two-handed blow of his greatsword, beating her back with all the fury of his foiled plans. She danced backward, parrying his strikes, but she felt his strength reverberate all the way up her arms and was forced to give up ground.

"I should have known you would find a way to escape," he snarled, feinting at her with his oversized blade. "All deals are off now, Hawke. You will die." More nimbly than she would have expected, he struck out at her in a series of quick thrusts.

She just barely skipped away from his swings, and spun in the air, scoring him on the forearm with one blade before she stepped back again. He hissed in pain. "Good luck with that," she said, baring her teeth as she circled him again with blades held low.

"And so will your traitor, Cullen." Marchand mirrored her, countered her movements in a continuing attempt to corner her. "He will die, swinging and gutted, like all the other Chantry spies I've discovered."

Even knowing he was taunting her, Hawke had to swallow against the bile that rose in her throat at the image he conjured. That was when he struck again, beating her back in a brutal flurry of powerful blows, moving faster than she would have thought possible with such a weapon. Sparks flew as metal screeched against metal and it was all Hawke could do to deflect each strike, arms aching from the force of his anger. As she started to tire, she was a fraction of a second too slow, and his sword slipped through her guard and pierced her left shoulder. She cried out as the pain tore through her, and she ungracefully backpedaled away. Her shoulder throbbed with every breath and her offhand blade suddenly felt much heavier. She gripped it harder, breathing in shallow gasps as the pain redoubled.

She had heard it said that Marchand would have been named Champion of Kirkwall had he not been bound to the Chantry. Only now did she appreciate the skill that must lie behind that story. A skill that might surpass her own, she realized with a cold wave of sudden dread.

Marchand smirked at her and without letting her recover, pressed his advantage again, focusing on her injured left side. Next thing she knew, he had maneuvered her toward the back of the chapel from where she and Cullen had entered. Every breath burned like fire in her shoulder and her left hand shook. Whenever she moved forward, he would counter and turn her until the Golden City triptych towered behind her and she had nowhere else to go.

Marchand's eyes were bright with triumph and he smiled each time he blocked her again. "It's no use, Champion. You are beaten. You should have stayed in your cell and accepted your deliverance."

She tsked at him pityingly. "It doesn't matter what happens here today, Marchand. _You_ don't matter. You will never get away with this. Kill everyone, and still the mages will rise again. The heads of state of those represented here will retaliate." She forced herself to chuckle, even though the movement tore painfully through her shoulder. "Your silver-eyed agent is dead. Your templar captains downstairs are detained by the palace guard. Your gambit was a failure before you even began."

Marchand hesitated as her words created a moment's doubt. Then, he glared and spat, "There is one certainty. Your death!"

He raised his sword high and swung in a deadly arc that would have cleaved her in two if she had not anticipated him by diving forward underneath his arm and rolling on her unwounded shoulder to regain her feet. Unable to compensate at the last minute, his tremendous momentum carried his sword forward until it was buried deeply in the ancient wooden triptych. He was still trying to yank it free when Hawke moved in behind him, and with all her remaining strength, slammed both her blades into his lightly armored back and ripped downward. She then sprang free, legs trembling, and watched as he staggered backward in an attempt to face her. He glared at her defiantly. "No," he said, trailing off as he slowly collapsed to his knees and then the floor.

She slumped ungracefully down to one knee, breathing heavily. Her off-hand knife clattered to the floor out of nearly nerveless fingers, and her left shoulder was a torrent of fire and pain that pulsed with each breath like it had a life of its own. She tried to focus on wiping clean and stowing the other blade, although her right hand also shook badly. She flexed her hands a few times to bring back proper feeling and started to lever herself back to her feet when she heard a scuffed step behind her.

Turning too late, she barely dodged a naked blade descending on her exposed back. The knife-edge caught on the edge of her jerkin as she twisted away, slicing shallowly across her shoulder as she fell backwards onto her injured shoulder, agony forcing all the breath from her lungs. A loud thrumming surrounded her, and then a sound like a door slamming in the distance. Gasping for air, she struggled upright only to flinch back once she saw the threat that had almost taken her unawares.

Thrashing in mid-air, a dagger flailing impotently in his hand, was Lowell, straining against glowing blue bands of force that encased him in a suspended cage.

Anders moved up behind the cage, openly admiring his handwork. "Just letting anyone sneak up on you now, Hawke?"

She managed a tired half-smile. "Apparently. Even weasels like this."

"You'll pay for what you did to my Lord!" Lowell yelled before squealing in dismay as the cage start to close in around him.

Hawke looked around the room and saw that the fighting had mostly died down. A few people wearing singed and blood-stained robes, presumably the last remaining mages, stood in deep conversation with Fiona, who was pale with a large cut on her forehead but alive. Cullen appeared to be negotiating the surrender of the remaining templars with assistance from the last Knight Divine, Ser Tremaine, and a full complement of palace guards who must have followed them into the fort at last. Alistair and Teagan, now surrounded by palace guards and a surly Captain Deacon, were soothing the ruffled feathers of the ambassadors who seemed shaken but largely unhurt. Solona was nowhere to be seen, but Leliana was striding toward them with murder in her eyes.

"Wait! Don't kill him yet," Leliana called to Anders. She eyed the pale man in the cage who shrieked again as the blue bands of force continued to shrink, bringing the glowing magic into sizzling contact with his skin. "This man was Marchand's confidante. He can answer many of our questions, like what happened to my agent. And answer he shall."

"Suit yourself," Anders said, and released the spell with a twitch of his fingers.

Lowell thudded to the floor of the chapel as the cage disappeared suddenly, and all the air could be heard rushing from his lungs. He then scuttled backward and scrambled to his feet. His face contorted into a hateful mask and he ran at Hawke again with his hand outstretched in claws. "I'll kill you for what you—" he started to shout, but then Hawke's right cross connected with his face and his eyes rolled back in his head as he went down.

Hawke looked at Leliana and shrugged. "He's all yours."

The spy smiled dangerously. "Yes. Yes, he is." She then knelt down to truss him up and drag him away.

"And, you," Anders said to Hawke, a stern look in his eye. "You certainly have gotten sloppy since I left. Stand still." He then placed a hand on her throbbing shoulder and a surge of healing magic suffused her wound. She gritted her teeth against the feel of flesh knitting back together, still unsettling after all these years.

"Well, I can't have you looking after me forever." She caught his eye and gave him a wan smile, and slowly, he returned it, nodding at her underlying meaning.

"True. It seems you've got someone else for that now." Anders was looking over her shoulder, presumably at Cullen on the other side of the room, as he finished the healing.

She sighed. "No. I've got myself for that now. And so do you."

He snorted. "Ah, so you _were_ going to let the Lord Seeker kill me. Lucky I have friends like Solona then—Ow!" he said, not quite dodging her playful punch at his arm.

"I was going to save you!" Hawke cried. "But on my terms. Not his."

"I know. And, truthfully, it's something I'm going to miss."

"What do you mean?" she asked, not liking the wistfulness in his voice.

"I'm going to go with the mages. There's a lot of work to be done now. To pick up the pieces here."

"But, I just got you back!"

He smiled and slid his fingers into her hair at the back her neck, cradling her face like he used to when they had been more. "You don't need me anymore, Marian Hawke. You never really did. But the mages do. This is my chance."

She nodded, less in agreement than at the inevitability. "If you're sure."

"I am. But I'll never be far." He hesitated and then pressed his lips lightly to hers in good bye. His hand at the back of her neck tightened for a moment and then he turned and walked back to Fiona and the other mages.

Fiona was still pale but her fire had returned. She was now in an animated discussion with Alistair and Trentwatch, both of whom seemed to be attempting to placate the Grand Enchanter. Hawke watched from a distance as the mage and templar argued across the Fereldan king, chagrined that it had taken so much strife to catalyze earnest talk at last.

"You made out all right?" Solona asked as she joined her at the back of the chapel.

"I'll live. You?"

"More or less," Solona said with a quick grin on her soot-smudged face. The hero had tied her red hair back into a perfect bun atop her head like a small concession toward normalcy given that she was still covered head to toe in grime and blood.

"Your chapel has seen better days, though," Hawke said, taking stock of the shattered stained glass, broken statues and ruined artwork.

Solona laughed. "At least I got to see some of it. Alistair did a lovely job." Her eyes almost automatically sought out the king where he still stood in the unenviable position between the mages and the templars.

"He did." _And we all know why he did,_ Hawke added silently.

They stood together in silence for a moment, watching the leaders squabble, but the Warden only had eyes for Alistair. "So the peace talks have resumed, I see," Solona said mildly.

"It seems so. Resumed, or maybe finally begun."

"Think they can work it out?"

"Hard to say. But they have good people involved now. Maybe the Divine will finally get off her ass and help."

Solona glanced at her for a second before returning to her observation of Alistair. "Cullen told me about his deal with the Chantry. Complicated business."

"That's one way to put it."

"But, you know it doesn't have to be." Solona flicked another quick glance at her. "In his heart, Cullen's not a complicated man. Something I think you know."

Hawke sighed and finally looked over at the corner of the chapel she had been avoiding. Cullen was having a serious conversation with Deacon and the templar captain from the fort landing. Feeling eyes on him, Cullen turned and caught Hawke observing him. Like in the Chantry dungeon, he was distant, but watchful, as if waiting for her to decide where they stood. "It sure feels complicated," she muttered, looking away.

Solona put a hand on her shoulder and gave Hawke her full attention. "But it doesn't have to be complicated," she said. "Please remember that." There was an urgency underlying her words that spoke to a deeper meaning, so Hawke nodded but without really understanding.

Hawke knew the exact moment that Alistair finally caught sight of Solona across the room, because the woman suddenly stiffened next to her. Alistair's whole face lit up as he recognized the warden and he took a half-step forward, smiling as he opened his mouth, perhaps to call out to her. Solona, however, shrank back and something like fear flashed in the eyes of the dauntless hero. Then she was gone, slipping out the door at the back of the chapel. Alistair only gazed after her, greeting still frozen on his lips.

_And I thought Cullen and I had problems_ , Hawke thought to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my friend tishinada for letting me bounce fight ideas off her and for confirming that you might be able to damage a shield so much that one would want to discard it to free your hand for . . . other things. :) Now onto the denouement and the ending tomorrow: **Chapter 31: Enough**.


	31. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, friend. :)

_Royal Palace_  
_Denerim_  
_Ferelden_

The bickering and finger pointing in the chapel had continued until Leliana returned and officially took control of the proceedings as Left Hand of the Divine. With Divine Justinia officially involved at last, resolution quickly followed. Through Leliana, the Divine issued pardons to all the combatants at Fort Drakon, including Hawke and her friends. Even Anders, much to everyone's surprise. In exchange, the Chantry expected a cease fire between the mages and templars, as well as a commitment to attend a new Divine Conclave where Justinia herself would broker a final agreement between the mages and templars. Cullen had no idea how Leliana had procured these assurances so quickly, and no one seemed brave enough to ask. They were all just relieved that the Chantry finally had fixed a stern eye upon its squabbling children.

The halls of the Royal Palace practically bristled with outrage and diplomatic crisis after crisis as the represented heads of state quickly learned of the Lord Seeker's treachery as well as the failure of Hawke's security measures. The palace guard, along with the city guard, went on high alert and worked to maintain a vigilant peace in the aftermath, which included protecting the templars still billeted in the city against retaliation. Alistair spent the next days locked away again with the ambassadors and counselors, navigating this new political quagmire.

Unsurprisingly, Hawke was no longer invited.

Fair or not, the ambassadors held her responsible for the near success of Marchand's coup, a charge she would not deny no matter how much her friends protested. At the same time, new tales grew up overnight about how the elusive Hero of Ferelden had saved their king from a rogue assassination attempt before disappearing again into legend, a misunderstanding both Alistair and Leliana preferred to cultivate. So, just like in Kirkwall, Hawke had saved the day by the skin of her teeth, but was being blamed for the smoldering disaster left in her wake, while Solona's mythic status only grew. When Varric pointed this out, Hawke simply laughed, albeit with a brittle edge.

She said very little to Cullen in the days following the battle, communicating only when she spoke to the group as a whole. He tried not to let it discourage him, knowing it was too soon for her to forgive him outright. No one else had yet either, Cullen concluded from the awkward silence that fell every time he entered a room. He had known that the nascent friendships he had built over the past months would be utterly destroyed by his lies, but it still hurt that even Varric gave him the cold shoulder. Anders would have enjoyed Cullen's fall from grace if he were here instead of dancing attention on Fiona and the mages, a turn of events that was also taking its toll on Hawke.

Or so Cullen observed from afar.

His emotional exchange with Hawke in the Chantry dungeon had given him hope that they could resolve their issues, but those hopes were dwindling as she remained distant with him. He was not ready to give up, but he was beginning to realize that his continuing alienation from the group might have decided it for him.

He was mulling his next steps after a comfortless trip to the Chantry, when his treachery tugged him back in again. He entered his chilly room at the palace only to see another folded white note with that damnable red seal waiting for him in the center of his rumpled bed. He opened the seal with a resigned sigh and sank onto the bed to read it.

This time it was written in a bolder hand, without Leliana's flourishes, and simply said:

_Join us in the highest tower when the moon sets.— C & L_

The plural _us_ along with the commanding tone told him that Cassandra had arrived, which meant that his reckoning was at hand. There was some relief in knowing it would all end now, one way or another. Would they let him go or drag him back to the Gallows' dungeon?

He glanced out the window at the darkening sky and the slim crescent moon chasing after the recently set sun. He would miss the sky and the comfort he had found in all those twinkling lights over the past months. He rubbed a thoughtful hand across his mouth and found his fingertips drawn again to the unaccustomed pull of the scar that now lined his upper lip, a permanent reminder of his time as Marchand's prisoner. He shot to his feet and paced for his few remaining minutes before heading out to the palace's darkening upper levels.

The ornate Orlesian facade of the palace had been added during the occupation, but the original Tevinter fortress could still be seen in the angular stone design of the battlements, which had been built for war not diplomacy. Cullen paused at the foot of the rough stone steps leading up to the tallest of the four towers and wondered if he was the first arrive since the tower's narrow arrowslits showed no light from inside.

Night had truly fallen with the slim moon now set, and lights were winking to life in the city below that still celebrated their King's delivery from danger by the Hero of Ferelden. No one had seen Solona since the battle, and Cullen could only presume she had decided to avoid a painful encounter with Alistair after all. Not that he could not blame her, given his own awkwardness with Hawke. Closure was never as tidy a process as one would like.

He took another bracing breath and headed inside.

The tower appeared deserted as he paced down the shadowed hallway, but then he saw the faint glow of light from underneath the door ahead. He opened it slowly to reveal a perfectly round room with evenly spaced arrowslits that barely allowed a view of the sky, and in between each, a sputtering oil lamp.

A collection of low wooden chairs were arrange in a rough circle in the middle of the room, and occupying one was Leliana, her bright hair still covered by a dark hood that was pinned at her right shoulder. She leaned heavily on the arm of the backless chair, her leg slung over the other arm, as she watched him approach. Cassandra stood behind Leliana's shoulder with her arms crossed, watching Cullen approach with eyes that appeared almost black in the meager lighting. There was a curious, expectant air about both women, like they wanted something from him again. Cullen blinked several times as an eerie sense of deja vu settled upon him like a cold, wet blanket.

"Thank you for meeting us," Leliana said. A glimmer of a smile colored her tone and ended the similarities from their first interview, when he had been dragged before them in chains.

"What choice do I have?" he said, preparing for battle.

Cassandra frowned at his brusque tone, but Leliana pursed her lips and said, "I think you would be surprised. But let us not get ahead of ourselves. We are still waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"Cullen?" he heard from behind him. Spinning around, he saw Hawke walk into the round room as well, eyes wide and suspicious. She held a white note with a broken red seal in her hand.

"What is the meaning of this?" he said, rounding back on Cassandra and Leliana. "I'll not let you ensnare Hawke in your schemes!" White hot anger coursed through him, joined by a flutter of panic, until Hawke placed a calming hand on his arm.

"It's all right, Cullen," said Hawke, stepping up to stand at his side. "I'm actually rather curious why I was invited. Unless this was my original invitation from six months ago that somehow got lost in the mail." She smiled in a flash of teeth.

"Varric always said you had quite the sense of humor," Cassandra said to Hawke, her dark eyes measuring as they raked over the Champion.

"Oh, I wouldn't believe everything he says," Hawke said.

"As a rule, I do not," Cassandra shot back, something almost like amusement in the press of her lips. "Which I suppose is why we knew he would eventually lead us to you, one way or another. Giving me the honor to meet you at long last, Champion. I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of the Chantry."

"It's nice to finally put a face to the name after all this time," Hawke said with a nod. "So what in the Void do you want from us this time?"

Cassandra smiled slowly like she had expected this rude response. "To begin, we are here to discuss Cullen's future."

The humor immediately fell from Hawke. "He has fulfilled his debt," she said, subtly shifting onto the balls of her feet as she did just before a fight. "You wanted him to find me. He did. You wanted him to convince me to get involved in the war. He did. You wanted him to spy." She paused almost imperceptibly in the toneless litany. "He did. That has to be enough."

"He has done much," Cassandra said, her words grudging and cautious.

"And what do you say, Cullen?" Leliana said, speaking up suddenly, eyes bright with the flicker of lamplight that masked whatever was really going on behind them. "Do you think that you have fulfilled your end of the bargain?"

He was quiet for a moment, thinking back to their first conversation, when they unironically had asked him to save the world from war with the expectation that he would likely perish doing so. The man he had been felt like another lifetime altogether. The only emotions he recalled from that meeting: vague curiosity, resignation, mostly hate. Hate for Hawke, for himself, for circumstance. He glanced at the sword of mercy on one of his vambraces, which Hawke had insisted he keep, and adjusted it idly. So many things had changed, while others remained the same.

"The peace talks failed. We failed," he said at last. "So much for your _divine instrument_."

Leliana pursed her lips, looking thoughtful as she considered his answer.

Hawke looked back and forth between him and the two women, her brow creased in consternation. "It doesn't matter what happened at the talks! Justinia pardoned everyone. And Cullen has more than done his part. You can have no further claim on him. He has earned his freedom and his old life back!" She jabbed a finger into the palm of her other hand to emphasize her point.

"Enough," Leliana said softly, straightening in her chair. "Enough, Hawke. We are not here to quarrel. You are right. Cullen is to be commended. You both are, despite what everyone is saying. We placed before you an impossible task, and together, you two came rather close to succeeding. Closer than we had any right to expect that fateful day back in Kirkwall."

Cassandra stepped forward to stand beside Leliana's chair. "In fact, we would like to discuss Cullen's reward."

Far from reassuring Hawke, these words made her eyes narrow even more. "Do tell?"

The Chantry women turned their attention to Cullen, and he suddenly felt the impulse to stand up straighter before their scrutiny. "Cullen, we once offered you full reinstatement should you do as we asked," Cassandra said. "Although the road has been long and twisted, we will honor that offer. You may be a templar again."

It took a second to absorb the fact that he would not be headed back to his cell. That quiet comfort warmed him for a brief moment before doubt crept back in.

_Not a templar._

The familiar litany ghosted through his mind but now just contributed to the swirl of confusion as he tried to reconcile this offer with his current feelings about the Order. The Order that offered structure and unity of purpose. The Order that now hunted and purged mages as a matter of principle.

His heart pounded in his chest and he pictured the gleaming, ordered ranks of templars from Gwaren, when he had wanted so desperately to throw his mission to the Void and join them. How that feeling had turned to ash in his mouth as the templars' purpose in Gwaren had become clear.

The silence stretched as Cassandra and Leliana waited for a response from him.

"Ser Trentwatch was quite impressed with you," Cassandra continued. "Justinia has assigned him as Knight Vigilant of Ferelden for his actions during the peace talks. He asked for you, by name, to be appointed to his staff."

_Not a templar._

Cullen felt divided in two. Everything he had been, everything he had striven his whole life to become, lay within his grasp. Perhaps he could divert the Order back to its original purpose. He almost laughed at the thought, which would only be another fool's errand, even more futile than the previous one.

"You hesitate," Leliana said not unkindly.

"I . . . Thank you for this honor," he said, furrowing his brow in disbelief at what he was about to say. "Truly. I had not expected to have much of a future, let alone such a generous one. But, the Order has charted a path I can no longer follow. So, it is with regret that I must decline."

"What?" Hawke said, spinning toward him with a gasp. "But, Cullen, this is everything you've wanted. Isn't it?"

He braced himself out of habit against the pain of loss, but there was no pain, just acceptance of this new path he had started. A path with limitless horizons for the first time in his life. He reached out to cup the side of her face, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "Not everything," he murmured, and she blushed.

"I see," Leliana said and turned to Cassandra for one of their silent conversations, after which Cassandra nodded. "Then we have a slightly different proposition."

Cullen drew his hand back from Hawke and squared his shoulders at Leliana's ominous tone.

"We remain committed to our goal of peace," Cassandra said. "Maker willing, this new Divine Conclave will end the conflict between mages and templars once and for all. But we fear that this is only the beginning."

"A storm is coming," Leliana said. "You can feel it in the winds of change. Not just in the mage-templar war, but in the tenor of the recent political discord. In the class and racial tensions in Orlais. Red lyrium spreading in Kirkwall and beyond. The cracks in the very foundations of the Chantry. This cannot all be coincidence. Something moves against us. A darkness we cannot yet identify."

"And we must be ready," Cassandra said. "To weather the storm."

Both women were deadly serious, giving their words a layer of foreboding. " _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm,"_ Cullen quoted automatically.

"Precisely," Leliana said, standing up. "Justinia seeks to assemble the Inquisition like in days of old, to stand ready against these dark forces that gather in the shadows. The Inquisition could use you. Both of you."

"Oh no!" Hawke said immediately with a laugh of surprise. "I still make it my policy not to work for the Chantry. No offense."

"None taken," said Leliana. "The Inquisition would be an independent body, not answering to the Chantry hierarchy. But I recognize that this might not be a comforting distinction, given Justinia's involvement."

"And, you, Cullen?" Cassandra asked, a shrewd look in her eye. "Does your new distaste for the Templar Order also extend to this?"

"But, why? Why me?" he somehow managed, aghast.

"We need someone with your knowledge and military skill as we build our forces," Leliana explained. "And, as I told you several times now, we have been quite impressed with you."

"Even after . . . everything? I . . . I am a liar. A betrayer. I . . ." he trailed off, feeling his throat close on the painful truth of his words. It was the one thing that he could not escape: the self-loathing he had earned time and time again.

Cassandra sighed and her expression softened. "Cullen, you are exactly what we need. We need those with . . . heart. And conviction."

"And those who can work at the margins of the power structures," said Leliana. "Who are not blinded by the traditions of what has come before. We need to become something new as this unknown threat gathers against us."

"By becoming something _old_ like the Inquisition?" Hawke asked. "Wasn't it essentially witch hunting back when the Chantry was started?"

Leliana sighed. "That is what its enemies would have you believe. But the first Inquisition was an independent force that worked on behalf of the truth. A truth that sided one too many times against those in power, who in turn wrote them out of history. Resurrecting the Inquisition in its true form will give us the ability to work outside the existing structures and laws. It is an advantage we will need."

"And this is what Justinia wants? A force that does not answer to her?" Hawke said, raising her eyebrows skeptically.

"Yes. It is what she has tasked us with, Cassandra and I, to recruit for this new Inquisition." Leliana glanced back at Cullen. "Essentially, it is who you have already been working for these past months."

Cullen frowned, taking the note from Hawke's unresisting hand and examining the seal more closely than he ever had. He had assumed it was a bastardization of the templar sword of mercy, with the Seeker's eye watching over them. Looking at it again, he could now see how it was older, and held the genesis of both the templar and Seeker of Truth heraldry. The pin at Leliana's throat bore the same symbol.

"What would you have me do, exactly?" he asked. He had certainly heard of the military feats of the Inquisition, back when Emperor Drakon ruled Orlais, and the notion of contributing to something of such import was more attractive than he was prepared to admit just yet. To do right in the world without the constraints of centuries of tradition or the age-old prejudice and fear that recently had taken hold of the Order. To follow his conscience for once.

"We need someone to oversee our military concerns, for Justinia's Conclave and beyond," Cassandra said. "If all goes well and we can truly develop an accord between the mages and templars, then perhaps force will not be needed. But we would prefer to be prepared if things do not go as planned."

"As things so often do," Leliana murmured with a glance at Hawke. "Hawke, I understand your reluctance. Nevertheless, our offer stands. We sought you out all those months ago to help bring the mages and templars to the table, but also to take this next step with us."

"Is that why you also reached out to Solona?" Cullen asked.

"Yes. I will say that we can use all the help that we can get. But, having the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall on board would be a particular boon. Just . . . think about it, Hawke."

Hawke shuffled her feet and twisted a thin strand of hair at her ear. "I don't do well within a hierarchy."

"You mean, taking orders," Cassandra said with a small smile. "After listening to Varric's stories, I am not surprised. But there are other ways we could work together. Do not rule it out just yet."

Hawke nodded but cast a longing glance at the door.

"And you, Cullen?" Cassandra said.

"I need some time to think it over," he said, eyeing Hawke who in turn remained focused on the door.

"Take your time," Cassandra replied. "But when we sail, I hope that you will be joining us."

"Whatever you decide," Leliana said, "you both have our thanks, and the thanks of Divine Justinia and the Sunburst Throne. However the crowned heads of Thedas may feel about your role in the failed peace talks, we know the service you have both performed. It will never be widely known, but the Divine's memory is long, as is her gratitude."

"I'll keep that in mind if the crowned heads of Thedas ever catch up to us in a dark alley," Hawke grumbled.

"The Inquisition will always be ready to assist, should you need us," Leliana said, before turning to Cullen. "And we will await your answer, Ser Cullen. Maker watch over you both." Cassandra nodded at them in parting, and then Cullen followed Hawke's escape from the room, still too stunned to do much more.

ooXXoo

Hawke headed blindly into the darkness of the battlements, needing fresh air after Leliana and Cassandra had tried to foist even more responsibilities onto her.

_Never enough. Never enough._

Her mind kept repeating it, astonished that no matter where she went, no matter how much she did, the world always demanded more. The Inquisition sounded like a fine idea, but one that did not need her help. She finally stopped her headlong flight away from the tower and took a few deep breaths through her nose in an effort to calm down.

Cullen stopped just behind her, and a quick glance showed him deep within his own thoughts. She leaned into the cool stone of the parapet, crossing her arms across it and sinking down until her chin rested on them. The night was so dark and clear that the stars were a blaze of light, and so numerous she could not even recognize the few constellations she knew.

"It's an interesting notion," Cullen said from behind her in a distracted voice.

She rounded on him, prepared to list off on her fingers the many reasons it was not, but his air of self-reflection gave her pause. He was also watching the sky, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the hope in his face, something that had been missing for too long.

"You're considering their offer," she said in realization.

He glanced down at her and fidgeted guiltily. "Well, perhaps. Do you think it such a bad idea?"

She jammed her mouth shut and considered her next words with care. Just because it was an awful idea for her to get involved did not mean it was for him, too, she reminded herself. She flinched away from the thought that they might end up separated by such a choice.

"It appeals to you, this Inquisition?" she asked instead.

He rubbed the back of his neck before answering. "It does. Maker knows I've had my differences with Leliana and Cassandra, but we fight the same fight. It's another chance to do some good in a world that sorely needs it. And, I don't have a lot of other options at the moment." He laughed hollowly.

"What about things going back to normal?" she asked.

He sighed and looked out over the parapet at the horizon. "What is normal for an ex-templar in a world where templars betray their own basic tenets? Besides, normal or not, I have nothing to go back to."

"Now that you're free, you could go back to Kirkwall. You had a life there." _We both had a life there,_ she thought, her own wistfulness coming to the fore.

"Of a sort," he said. "But so much has happened. I'm not the man I was. I think my time there is done." He shook his head. "Peace between the mages and templars is still a cause worth fighting for. I don't know that I could just go back to normal. Could you?" He looked at her and tilted his head quizzically. "Would that be enough?"

She took a step back but the parapet against her back stopped her from escaping this conversation. Once she would have said _yes_ , without a second thought. In fact, she had said it often, to herself, to Cullen. But now she was not so sure.

"You think this Inquisition is the way?" she asked, deflecting again.

"I don't know. It could be a new beginning. And a chance to make amends."

"Do you really think you can trust them?"

He gave her a steady look. "Do you think you could trust me?"

Her mouth went dry as he shot to the heart of why she had been avoiding him, because she had no good answer. Knowing what had brought him to this point, she knew she could forgive him, but would she always wonder if he were being truthful? She had lived with Anders too long not to share a degree of his paranoia. She gave Cullen the only answer she could. "I want to," she whispered.

He smiled sadly. "That's already more than I deserve."

"You should do it," she blurted. "Join the Inquisition. They believe in you. You deserve that."

"And you?"

She bit her lower lip, uncertain exactly what he was asking this time. Could she see a new start in the Inquisition? Or, did she believe in him, too? She took the coward's way out. "I always land on my feet," she said, raising her chin.

He sighed. "That you do." He started walking again along the parapet toward a stairway that would lead them down. "That you do."

He sounded so disappointed in her that she instantly regretted her comment. She wanted to call him back, and start again, but instead she just followed, lost in a confusing blur of conflicting emotions. They still had too much to resolve even without this wrinkle of the Inquisition dividing them.

With her head down, she plowed into his back when he stopped suddenly. "Wha—?"

"Sssh," he said, looking at something ahead of them.

Near the far parapet, two people stood talking, almost invisible to the casual eye given the moonless darkness. But, Hawke recognized them right away and had to move closer. Alistair and Solona had found each other at last.

The couple stood close together, speaking and staring at each other so intently that it was like there was no one else in the whole world. Their words were too indistinct to make out the conversation, but Solona did most of the talking and Alistair would smile periodically, his eyes glowing as he hung on her every word. They touched not at all, but the spark between them filled the air, cocooning them in their personal tragedy.

"Painful to watch, isn't it?" Cullen said from behind Hawke's shoulder.

Hawke swallowed around the lump in her throat and only nodded.

"It's a shame they couldn't work past their differences back when they still had a chance." Cullen spoke lightly, but a tremor of uncertainty ran through his statement. And an unspoken question.

She watched the other couple a moment longer, noting the way that Alistair's hand would creep closer to Solona but then would retreat again. Each time, he would come even closer, but stop, and each time, Hawke found that she was holding her breath in hopeful anticipation.

_It doesn't have to be complicated,_ Solona had said, but Hawke had not understood then.

Cullen quietly cleared his throat behind her. "But now . . . Now, well, I suppose, it's too late. F-for them."

Hawke could feel the heat from where Cullen stood behind her, also closer than what decorum would dictate. Not that she had ever cared for decorum. She closed her eyes, focusing not on the future but on the now. Cullen's stolid presence at her back. Always at her back. His warmth. His love. His unconditional support. Those were things in which she could trust. Bit by bit, the cold knot of fear around her heart unwound in the knowledge that he was with her. They were safe. They were together. And, suddenly, that was enough.

_It doesn't have to be complicated._

She opened her eyes and saw that Alistair had taken to crossing his arms, as if physically restraining his wandering hands from touching the woman before him. Hawke shook her head. "It's never too late," she said in a husky voice.

She heard a soft intake of breath behind her, but then nothing. She swallowed and before she could lose her nerve, leaned back very slowly against his chest, closing the distance that remained between them.

She held her breath for what felt like an eternity, heart hammering against her ribs, and waited for his response, ready to jump away in an instant. But then, strong arms slipped around her shoulders, enfolding her in an equally tentative embrace from which she could easily escape. With a relieved sigh, she relaxed fully against him and his arms tightened fiercely around her, holding her fast. She could feel his heart also race.

In the distance, the other couple remained apart and even Solona had now clasped her hands behind her back. But even without touching, their connection was palpable. "They'll be all right," Hawke said.

"Yes, Grace," Cullen agreed with feeling, the rumble of his voice just above her ear. "Yes, they will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we dovetail back into Inquisition, a little AU but mostly on target. Stay seated for the epilogue after the credits. :)


	32. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up with our heroes a few months later. FYI a few Dragon Age: Inquisition spoilers.

_9:41_  
_Skyhold_  
_Ferelden_

Cullen straightened from the letter he was writing and kneaded the muscles at the small of his back with relief. When Cassandra and Leliana had recruited him to lead the Inquisition's forces, he could not have imagined the hours he would spend crouched over his desk, reading and writing reports and missives. Then again, no one could have predicted much about his new life.

The storm Justinia had foretold was worse than anyone could have known, involving a breach into the Fade itself that threatened the very fabric of their world, as well as her untimely death. The Inquisition alone fought against this new threat and hung on by a mere thread. Cullen still had not finished writing condolence letters after their bitter defeat in Haven.

He rubbed a stray ink stain from his fingers and scowled down at the terse message he had just received telling him to meet Varric and the Inquisitor atop the northern battlements. The note said _immediately_ since, of course, Cullen had nothing else to occupy him today.

He exited the dim interior of the dilapidated tower that now held his office and meager quarters and immediately had to squint against the overbright sun glinting painfully off the ice-capped peaks surrounding their new base of Skyhold. In the weeks since their desperate retreat through the storm-ridden mountains from Haven, the skies had remained incongruously clear and blue, while on the ground they still mourned their dead.

Cullen tramped across the battlement of the ancient fortress, skirting the piles of old rubble and debris that had yet to be cleared, and took the opportunity to examine the outer wall for remaining issues for the engineers. He pinched the bridge of his nose as the enormity of their task to fortify the crumbling keep overwhelmed him again and he wondered at the urgency of this meeting when there was so much else to do.

When he did not see Varric or Inquisitor Cadash right away, he skipped down the steps to another landing along the perimeter wall, starting to get annoyed that he had to search, when he ground to a halt in shock.

He had no words at first and merely stood there, drinking in the familiar sight of travel stained leathers and those capable fingers nervously twirling a strand of short, dark hair near her ear. Then she turned around and her weary face immediately lit up. "Cullen!" she cried, running toward him.

"Oh, Grace," he said with longing, catching her as she vaulted into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist. Somehow he maintained his balance as he spun her in a circle and eagerly captured her lips for an impatient kiss. They were both soon breathless, unwilling to break the kiss, and in that moment, every other care receded before the feel of her safely in his arms again.

Eventually, he set her down on her feet again as the questions inexorably started to tumble out. "What are you—? Where? How?" he tried to ask. "Aveline told me you left Kirkwall after things got dicey with the red templars, but we didn't know where you had gone next. How did you find us?"

She laughed. "You should know by now that Varric always knows how to find me. I came as soon as I could. Surprising you was his idea." The smile dropped from her face. "I was so worried when I heard about Haven."

Cullen shook his head and looked down, weighed down again by sorrow as he pictured the dead. "So many lives lost. Lives that depended on me."

She lifted his chin. "There will always be losses, Commander. What's important is how you honor their sacrifice." She gave him a small smile of understanding.

He let out a deep sigh, feeling the tension in his shoulders relax slightly, and slipped his arms around her. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

He looked her over, taking in every detail, noting differences since the last time he had seen her just before the Divine Conclave. The tired circles under her eyes. The deepening worry lines between her brows. The smudge of reddish dirt across the bridge of her nose. "You cut your hair?" he said, smiling in wonder.

"Do you like it?" She stepped back and pressed a self-conscious hand to her hair, cut again in the short, windswept style she had favored in Kirkwall. "Since I was dealing with Kirkwall templars, I thought I should look a bit more like the Champion again."

"You're beautiful." He touched her face and rubbed his thumb against the smudge of dirt on her nose. Her eyes crossed adorably as she tried to see it herself.

She laughed, scrubbing at her nose with a finger, and kissed him. "Liar."

He tilted his head to the side. "Not any longer."

She grimaced at him. "Cheeky."

"Besotted," he corrected, placing a kiss on the tip of her nose.

She giggled. "Forgiven." She studied his face as if to memorize it. "This was too long."

"Agreed. I did not expect your quick trip to Kirkwall for Cassandra would turn into such an ordeal," he said with a frown.

"Neither did I. Nor that you are such a lousy correspondent."

He laughed. "I think that's the pot calling the kettle black, Grace."

She smiled. "Perhaps. But then, _I_ wasn't at the center of a world-shaking cataclysm. Without you." She looked down and started to fidget with the golden edging on the red tunic he wore over his breastplate.

Seeing the concern she hid behind her joking, he was tongued tied by his sudden impulse to apologize.

She shook her head and quirked up the corner of her mouth. "It's ironic," she said, "that, for all Leliana's efforts to convince me to work for the Inquisition, all she really had to do was hire you."

"Meaning?" he said, raising his eyebrows while trying to hold in check his sudden leap of hope.

"Meaning that I'm not sure I can leave you again," she said, continuing to toy with the edge of his tunic. "So I suppose I might as well make myself useful around here." Finally, she looked him in the eye and his whole body went alternately cold then hot.

He pulled her in close to his heart. "You give a man ideas," he breathed, and her smile grew.

"So I assume you two know each other?" said a dry female voice from behind them.

Cullen let go of Hawke and spun around to see Malika Cadash walk up with Varric grinning smugly at her side. "Erm, yes, Inquisitor, my apologies. You see, um, this is . . ."

"Marian Hawke, Inquisitor," said Hawke, stepping forward to shake the Inquisitor's hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Champion. Your reputation precedes you. Thank you for coming. I understand from Varric you might have some experience with the latest obstacles we've encountered," Malika said to Hawke with her usual knack for understatement.

"Yes, I'm pleased to share what I can, along with some other news I've learned that I think you might need to know," Hawke said, but almost like she could not help herself, her eyes slipped back to gaze fatuously at Cullen. He was sure he was doing the same.

The usually impassive dwarf smiled warmly and glanced between Cullen and Hawke. "I think I begin to see why Varric here has been so smug all morning about this meeting."

"I'm allowed to admire my own handiwork from time to time," Varric said, shrugging.

"We can talk more tonight, once the Commander's busy schedule clears up. Welcome to Skyhold, Hawke." Malika strode briskly away. "Come along, Tethras," she said over her shoulder. "You've done enough."

Varric just nodded in satisfaction. "Yes, unfortunately it is now up to them." He grinned and inclined his head at each of them in turn. "Hawke. Curly." He then sauntered after the Inquisitor.

Cullen cringed inwardly at Varric's meddling, while Hawke turned widened eyes upon him. " _Curly_?"

Cullen sighed and rolled his eyes. "Apparently, now that my identity crisis is over, Varric says, calling me _Templar_ is no longer ironic enough."

Hawke frowned at this, opened her mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it. Then her eyes narrowed wickedly. " _Have_ you done something different with your hair?"

"What? No! I mean, maybe it's longer on top, so maybe less curly. I don't know." His cheeks suddenly felt hot.

"I miss the curls a bit, too. Especially from when it was much longer." She grinned. " _Commander_ ," she said, rolling the sounds off her tongue in a way that set his blood on fire.

"So will you really stay?" he asked, hoping he had understood her properly.

"Yes, if you'll have me. I just wanted things to go back to normal, but . . ." She sighed. "I finally realized that you're my normal."

He thrilled at her words and took her in his arms again. "Well, if that's our new measure of normal," he said lightly, "then we're in for a rough time of it."

"That sounds about right," she said, laughing. "So . . ." Her brow furrowed and her lower lip drew down into a pout. "The Commander is busy this afternoon?"

He dropped a kiss at her temple. "Very busy," he murmured, nuzzling her jaw. "I have a newly returned agent to debrief, and it likely will take the rest of the day." He pressed his lips to the dimple that had reemerged on her cheek. "Probably all night as well."

"Oh!" she said with a shivery giggle. "So, the Commander will be quite occupied for the foreseeable future."

"Quite," he said, "and hopefully even longer." He laced his fingers together with hers and she flushed happily. "Let me show you our new home." Hand in hand, walking so close their shoulders brushed, they retraced his steps across the picturesque keep toward his tower and their new beginning.

**Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the end end. Phew. It's been a long road. Far longer than I expected. But, ironically, this ending has gotten me excited about Inquisition again, and new stories are already percolating. So if you're interested in this couple, stay tuned for a few more tales. I've created a series for this universe, and anything new will show up there. Plus, a few more reflections that may or may not end up as official "End Notes."
> 
> Now that's it's done, a few additional heartfelt thanks:
> 
> My tireless beta, meanieweenie, who has stayed with me for YEARS NOW, red penning draft after draft, and having to read the novel-length story in its not quite perfect state each time. She rocks and is my special gift from this fandom that I now get to keep forever.
> 
> The lovely artists who have drawn things from this story, [Chenria](http://chenria.tumblr.com) and [Jerhopp](http://jerhopp.com). There's still nothing in the world like seeing your story come to life through the lens of an artist. Thank you for sharing your gifts.
> 
> My many friends from the wonderful BSN Cullen thread that have prompted and percolated and discussed so many ideas with me over the long years. The story idea originally nibbled at me from our discussions of the ending of DA2 back in thread v.1.0, and the idea wouldn't leave me alone. Stay awesome.
> 
> UPDATE: Yup, new follow up story: [The Trouble With Hawke](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7088974). We'll see how many new ideas come to nibble. :)


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